


Run, Neon Tiger

by Unsentimentalf



Series: Fearful Symmetry [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-17
Updated: 2012-04-23
Packaged: 2017-11-02 01:38:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unsentimentalf/pseuds/Unsentimentalf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When there's a massacre at London Zoo Sherlock has no difficulty identifying the culprit, but John is sure that this time Sherlock has to be wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Old Allies

"Wake up. We're going to the Zoo."

"What?" John propped himself up, blinked at his clock. "Sherlock! It's five in the morning! I don't think they even open until nine."

"Six bodies so far. The whole of the night shift is dead or missing. Come on, John! Before the evidence is trampled." Sherlock was wrapped in his dressing gown, impatiently opening John's drawers, pulling out clothes. "If you don't move I'll go without you."

"OK. I'm coming. Give a man a chance. Five minutes. And you do know that you need to dress too?"

"No more than five minutes." Sherlock tossed what appeared to be a random selection of items on the bed. As he walked out John blinked, surprised. "Sherlock!"

"What?" Sherlock's long frame bent back around the door.

"What's that on your ankle?"

"Nothing. Hurry up." And the man disappeared. John could have sworn he'd seen a flash of metal around the bare skin. It might have been one of those magnetic bracelets, but John couldn't see Sherlock going in for pseudo science. Some sort of experiment, he supposed, and Sherlock in too much of a hurry to explain.

If there was anything it was neatly hidden by trousers and socks when John got downstairs. Sherlock was pacing. How he could dress so immaculately in such a short time baffled John, but then a lot of things about Sherlock were beyond his comprehension. 

"Right, I'm ready. I hope they have breakfast. It's years since I've been to the Zoo. Do you think anyone will notice if I sneak off to see the elephants?"

"I doubt if anyone, myself excepted, will notice you're there at all, John. But if you could leave your elephant watching until I have no further use for you that would be appreciated."

Sherlock was right, as usual, if unflattering. Holding Sherlock's coffee was about all he usually contributed directly to these cases. Still, he wouldn't miss it for the world, so if Sherlock wanted his coffee held, that was fine by him.

"What do you know so far?"

"Lots of bodies with bullets in them. Lestrade thinks it's animal rights extremists." That with some disdain. 

"You don't, then?"

"Data, first."

 

Regent's Park was five minutes in a taxi. As John paid the driver he could see the entrance to the zoo already crowded with police. Staff arriving for the morning shifts were being turned away. Sherlock and John got waved through by one of Lestrade's people, and met by the man himself just inside.

"We've got bodies all over the place," he started without preamble. "Eight of them. All the night staff are now accounted for, meaning dead. No sign of anyone else. No reports of a disturbance. The shift change just came in and found them."

"Show me where the bodies are." Sherlock reached out for a guidebook from the kiosk, turned it to the map. 

"Three in the control room, here. Five out on patrol; roughly here, here, here, here and here." He pointed at places widely spaced on the map.

"All the same cause of death?"

"Rifle bullets. Silenced, we presume; we didn't get any reports of gunfire." 

"What about CCTV?"

"The whole zoo's blanked from 2:34am onwards. This is a frighteningly professional job, Sherlock. We didn't think the animal rights nutters could pull off something like this." 

Sherlock turned the map round in his hands. "Control room first." 

John followed him up to the main buildings. There wasn't much to be gained from his examination of the bodies at Sherlock's request. They'd been murdered from the doorway, one well placed shot each, had been dead for two to three hours. The doors had normally been kept unlocked; there was a security pass system that Sherlock snorted derision at. "How many people had London Zoo marked passes? Fifty? One person lost a pass, or had it stolen, or sold it, that's all it takes. That's not a security system, that's an open invitation."

The remaining five men and women were lying where they had been shot around the walkways of the zoo. It took a couple of hours for Sherlock's painstaking examination, them his reconstruction of angles and distances to be complete. Eventually he gestured to the map.

"See, John. One gunman, alone. This was his route; control first, then around each of these loops of pathways, entirely systematic, making sure that the patrollers never encountered a body to raise the alarm."

He lifted his head. "Are animals always this noisy?"

Now he'd mentioned it, John couldn't ignore the continuous bellowing and shrieking. "I don't know."

"Find me someone who does." He went back to looking at his map.

Someone turned out to be a Dr Robinson, the Curator of Mammals, who was arguing vehemently with Lestrade. John persuaded them both back to where Sherlock was now sitting on a park bench contemplating the silent giraffe. 

"Zoo animals are creatures of routine, Mr Holmes. Regular meals, regular visits from keepers- you can hear their distress. As I have been explaining to the Inspector, my people have to be allowed back to work."

Lestrade shook his head. Later, John knew, Greg would be tired and distressed himself by the deaths but now he was working."I have eight murder victims and a major investigation spread out across the whole of the zoo. I can't possibly allow staff back in yet. If there's anything at particular risk tell me and we'll see what we can do. Otherwise the animals will have to go hungry for a few hours longer."

The curator was starting again when Sherlock interrupted. "So no-one has actually checked that everything is still in its cage?"

"I did think of that by myself, thank you, Sherlock." Lestrade said. "These people usually release animals but I've had everyone on the lookout and no-one's reported any strays at all. I guess that they must have been disturbed before they got a chance."

"A particularly poor guess, given that everyone who might have disturbed your single gunman is dead. He had plenty of time to do what he came for; nothing whatsoever to do with animal liberation."

"Theft?" The curator sounded even more anxious.

"Can you steal zoo animals? Would anyone buy them?" Lestrade asked, sceptically.

"Oh yes. Our parrot collection alone would be worth millions. Then there are the marmosets, and the reptiles- it really is essential that we are allowed to check the animals, Inspector! If they've been stolen for the black market we need to recover them urgently. The conservation consequences could be huge."

"I suppose a limited audit, accompanied by my officers..."

Sherlock snorted. "Don't bother. Whatever a marmoset might be I imagine it's safe. This hunter was after big game." He swept his coat up and set off down a pathway, came to a halt in front of a large enclosure. "What's kept in here?"

"Sumatran tigers. One of our rarest species."

"How many?"

"Two. We're hoping for cubs in the Spring."

"You're going to be disappointed." 

The curator shook his head. "No, stealing a tiger would be impossible. One of them's on its platform- see? Just the edge of its back? It can be quite difficult if you're not used to... where are you going? That shouldn't be open!"

That was a metal side door, lock smashed. Sherlock pushed it open, went inside. John could see another door hanging open inside.

"You mustn't go in there! The tigers are extremely territorial! Mr Holmes!"

Sherlock stuck his head out. "Watch the one on that platform, John, and if it moves, please shout "Run" very loudly indeed."

"Sherlock!"

He disappeared again. John resisted the temptation to follow; instead he watched the stripe of orange and black, heart in his mouth. It would be just like Sherlock to get eaten by a bloody tiger.

Silence for a couple of minutes, then movement next to the tiger stripe. He was about to shout when the figure on the platform stood up. 

"You can all come in." Sherlock called. "Two less Sumatran tigers, Doctor, I'm afraid."

The dead tiger seemed huge, stretched out on the platform, face frozen in a snarl. John knelt down to touch the soft fur, expose the singed bullet hole in the chest. Shot at point blank range. "Where's the other one?" 

Sherlock jerked his head towards the headless and bloody carcass that John had assumed was the tigers' dinner. "He took the male's pelt." 

Robinson was shaking his head, clearly horrified. "This is dreadful."

"More dreadful than eight of your staff being murdered?" Lestrade asked, curtly.

"No!" His response was sharp. "Of course not! But these animals are entrusted to our care. Who would have done something like this?"

"More relevant, who could have done something like this?" Sherlock said. "There might be a handful of men in London capable of killing all your staff and two tigers without raising an alarm, but I believe there is only one capable of skinning one of them quickly and neatly afterwards."

He pulled out his phone, flashed a photo at Lestrade. "Colonel Sebastian Moran. 35 years old. Ex-British Army, dishonourable discharge, ran a mercenary unit in south Asia. Officially he now runs a legitimate security consultancy for firms trading in Pakistan and Afghanistan. Actually he shoots people for Jim Moriarty. No criminal record. Tigers are a bit of a hobby of his. He's got a number of identifying scars but I suggest you start off with Yellow Pages; his company's listed.

Lestrade frowned at the picture. "Evidence? I can't get a warrant on "Sherlock Holmes says it was him".

"He's not going to leave fingerprints scattered around or buy guns on the open market. Hard evidence will be difficult."

"Right. Evidence that he works for Moriarty?"

"None."

"Illegal weapons? Parking tickets? Library fines? Anything at all that I can pick him up on?"

"You won't find a thing. He'll be clean."

Lestrade sighed. "What the hell am I meant to do, then? I could at least get the contraband group on it, see if they have any ideas about where the skin will be sold. It must be worth a fortune."

"Don't bother. It won't be sold. Jim Moriarty wanted a new rug, and he's got it."

Lestrade hissed shock and disapproval. "You're telling me that I have eight bereaved families to deal with because your Moriarty wanted to redecorate his living room? That's really sick."

"Not 'my' Moriarty." Sherlock said. "And would it have been better if he'd wanted to sell it for a million pounds and redecorate his living room with the proceeds?"

"No, I suppose not. But it would have been less insane."

John had barely heard most of that exchange. "Let me see that."

The man in the snap was leaning back in a chair behind an laptop on an office desk. His blue eyes were bright and he was smiling, lips closed. He'd picked up a couple of scars, but other than that he barely seemed to have changed in the eight years since John had last seen him. Seb Moran. 

"You can't be sure it was him."

Sherlock was watching him. "Ah. You know him. You served together." A pause. "You were friends." And softer, unusual for Sherlock. "I'm sorry. Yes I can."

He wanted to challenge Sherlock about where the photo came from but he suspected it was dirty linen and Lestrade was present. "Yes, I knew him. A long time ago. I think I'll go and find those elephants. Give me a call if you need me."

He'd have to talk to Sherlock. He'd have to talk to Lestrade. This was a murder investigation; his feelings didn't count for anything compared to the dead, and justice for them. But for now no-one called him back as he walked away.

 

The police had set up operations in a lecture theatre heavily plastered with educational posters about wild animals. John drank coffee and tried not to read a display about the disappearance of big cats in the wild between Lestrade's questions about Moran. 

He was aware of Sherlock sitting quietly to one side, for once not interrupting. John was pretty sure that neither questions nor answers were important. His recollection of army life with a man he'd not seen for eight years wasn't going to give the police any breakthroughs. It was routine, done only because the connection was there. If it was there. Still nothing but Sherlock's conviction linked Moran to the zoo or to Moriarty.

"What was he like? He was a good officer." He shrugged. "A bit reckless, sometimes, but not aggressive. He was a damn good shot, and a good tactician. If you'd asked me what I thought would happen to him, I'd have said he had a promising military career ahead of him. If he really had any involvement in this I can't explain it, except that war damages people sometimes. I guess he might have got damaged."

He could see the slightest shake of Sherlock's head; whether for the question or the answer, he couldn't guess. He suspected that Sherlock had much better questions, but was waiting until they were alone. That was all right; he had questions for Sherlock of his own. 

Lestrade nodded. "I'll call you if I think of anything else. I'll keep your theory in mind, of course, Sherlock. I can put limited surveillance on Moran and get border controls to watch for him leaving the country but I can't do anything else without any evidence at all."

"I'll get you evidence." Sherlock promised. "But it might take time."

"Don't take too long. The media are in a frenzy already and we haven't released the news about the dead tigers yet. I can't hold that back longer than the press conference this afternoon. Cute animals and mass murder- speculation is going to go absolutely wild and no-one's going to like it if we look as if we have nothing at all."

 

John half expected Sherlock to start haring across London but the taxi deposited them at their own front door. They went up in silence.

"I need something to eat." They'd missed breakfast and it was getting late for lunch. "Do you want a sandwich, Sherlock?"

"Yes. Fine." Sherlock had gone straight to his laptop, didn't raise his head. John rolled his shoulders, aware of the tension in them, and in the room. He put the kettle on, made them both cheese sandwiches, took plates and mugs back into the living room.

"Are you researching Seb, then?"

Sherlock looked up. "Seb. Not Moran. You were rather closer than you admitted to Lestrade, John."

John settled into his chair with a plate. It was disconcerting to have Sherlock analyse him like this, today. "Not very close, really. But he was a friend, yes. Where did you take that photo?"

"His office." Sherlock's gaze was back on the screen again.

"What were you doing there?" Silence. "Sherlock! You're accusing my friend of murder. At least let me know why!"

Sherlock's head came up again and he looked at John without expression. "Sebastian Moran was my escort to meet Jim Moriarty."

Three weeks ago Sherlock had left John a message claiming that he was following a new lead on a rather old and cold blackmail case and that he might be absent for a couple of days. John had waited through 24 hours of not getting any replies to calls or messages before he'd contacted Mycroft, who had been given an equally vague but completely different story. 

Mycroft had traced Sherlock's phone to a country hotel with an unidentifiable owner and a remarkably unbreachable level of security, and the two of them had been debating the merits of sending in a team to recover Sherlock, given that he appeared to be there of his own free will, when he had called to demand extraction.

Faced with the two of them, Sherlock had reluctantly come clean. He'd gone to meet Jim Moriarty, by prior arrangement, with the intention of getting as much data as he could on the man. It had always been obvious that Jim knew far more about Sherlock than he did about the criminal; this was a chance to even up the score. Moriarty's motives for the invitation were less clear, as usual. It had taken the best part of a day of being shunted around before they'd actually met, talked, had dinner, talked again until Sherlock had decided that it was time to leave. That was all. He had some better insight into the man now, some clues that Moriarty dropped about his plans. Since neither John nor Mycroft would have appreciated the risk involved, he'd chosen not to tell them.

Sherlock had refused to say what the talks had been about. Moriarty had been adamant that they were to remain private. If he thought Sherlock had talked about them the consequences could be unpleasant, not so much for Sherlock but for his audience.

"You didn't mention Moran."

Sherlock spread his hands, possibly genuinely innocent this time. "There are thousands of British Army officers. He left shortly after you enlisted. I had no reason to think that you'd know him."

"What was he doing there?"

"He was Jim's bodyguard. The tiger stuff's online."

"And the rug? How did you know about that?"

"Moriarty mentioned it."

John exhaled sharply."That couldn't be an accident. He knew you'd immediately think of the two of them together when the tiger was killed. He's framing Seb for it, Sherlock. He has to be. You said yourself there's no evidence."

"Interesting theory." Sherlock's expression hadn't changed. "Unnecessary, but interesting. Why would he need to frame Moran? The man works for him."

"Because...." John paused. Inspiration struck. "Because Moran's Special Ops. That's why he left the army, why he's hanging out with with Moriarty. And Moriarty's found out, but instead of just killing him he's going to get him framed for a massacre because he's that sort of sick bastard. It all makes sense, Sherlock!"

"Possibly. However I favour my rather simpler explanation, which is that Sebastian Moran killed eight people because his boss told him to, and skinned the tiger. I met him, John. He's not one of the good guys."

John's chin was set. "What did you actually see him do, Sherlock, that was so terrible?"

"He's Moriarty's favourite sniper. His hands are hardly going to be clean."

"Nothing, then." John said triumphantly. 

"I did the research. He's rumoured to be implicated in a dozen killings, John, and that's before Moriarty."

"Rumours. You met him, he did that Clint Eastwood impression he's always been so good at, and you took a look at his carefully puffed up reputation and decided he's a cold blooded killer. I know him, Sherlock. He's a soldier, not a murderer. He didn't do this." For once Sherlock had to listen to him. It couldn't have been Moran.

"John!" Sherlock's voice was sharp. "Seb Moran is not a secret agent and not just a bodyguard. He doesn't only kill for Moriarty; he lets the man inflict sex with extreme violence on him. He's into Jim's affairs up to his neck. Either you were wrong about the sort of person he was, or he's changed."

"No." John was adamant. "I'm going to talk to him, find out what's going on. He probably doesn't even know that I know you."

Sherlock huffed amusement at that. "He knows all about you, John. He had a little red laser sight on your chest. One gesture from Moriarty and he would have blown a hole straight through his old army comrade's heart. Don't rely on sentiment keeping you safe from him."

"Seb won't hurt me." John was certain. "I'm not going to threaten him. Just talk."

 

"Tigris Security."

"I'd like to speak to Sebastian Moran, please."

"Speaking." The voice was matter of fact.

"Right. This is John Watson. From the Fusiliers? Ex-Fusiliers, I should say. I'm a civilian now."

"John!" Seb's voice turned warm. "This is unexpected. What can I do for you?"

"Could you spare some time for a chat, Seb? It's important."

"Of course. I was on my way over to the office; have you got the address?"

"Yeah, I've got it. Half an hour?"

"See you then."

John hung up, looked across at Sherlock. "I am going."

"Obviously." Sherlock said. "Remember he's a murder suspect. This could be dangerous. You should let me come with you."

"No, thank you. I'll do this on my own."

 

The door carried a small sign; "Tigris Security". John rang the bell and waited.

Seb Moran opened the door. "John. Come in." Downstairs was a neat office, looking well established. Seb went straight for the kettle. So much for Sherlock's warnings of danger.

"Still one sugar?"

John exhaled. Of course he would remember. "No. Given it up. I don't get as much exercise as I did."

"Spend too much time behind a desk myself these days." Moran was casual, as if it hasn't been eight years and whatever else in between. And Moriarty- John couldn't hold Jim Moriarty and Seb Moran in his head together. It made no sense.

He took a seat in front of the desk familiar from Sherlock's photo, wondering how to start.

"You know why I'm here, I suppose. Do you know why I'm here?"

"I can guess." Moran turned round from the drinks. "You shouldn't have come. I can't help you."

"I just need to know a few things."

"No." Moran's voice was harsh. "I can't talk about active operations, Watson. You know how that works."

"Is that what this is? Whose operation?"

"No. No guesses, no denials, no processes of elimination. I'm not talking, John."

John watched the familiar face, the bright blue eyes, the frown. When Seb declared something like that he didn't shift. "You're going to have to talk to the police. They think you killed those people at the zoo."

"No they don't." Moran poured hot water onto instant coffee. "Your partner thinks that. If the police thought that they'd have been here. Instead I get you. Here."

"Thanks," John looked around for a coaster, and Moran pushed a blank pad of paper towards him. "Did you kill them?"

Seb tipped his head to one side, considering John. " Now why would you take his word without evidence?"

"I didn't say I did."

"Enough to feel the need to come and ask me if I've become a murderer. What did he tell you about me, John?"

John sipped at his coffee, wondering how to respond. Eventually he put the mug down.

"He told me that you're working for Jim Moriarty. That you kill people for him."

Moran raised an eyebrow, waiting.

"That's it, really."

"Really?" Sceptical.

"And he sort of indicated that... that you might be in a relationship with Moriarty," John tried, uncomfortably. 

Moran's snort was amused but uninformative. "You're used to believing him, aren't you?"

"Yes. Absolutely." He paused, considering. "About murderers, anyway. About whether he used the last of the milk- less so. He's not so reliable at the personal level."

Seb was watching John's fingers wrapped around the coffee mug. "How personal do you two get?"

"I'm not..." John swallowed the routine phrase. Seb would laugh at him. "We're just friends. Not that it's your business."

"Listen to me. Your Holmes- all this is at the personal level, for him. Just remember that."

"You mean Moriarty?"

"I mean all this. Watch yourself, John. You're hooked up with someone far more unreliable and dangerous than you imagine and you've got to keep your head or he'll drag you down with him."

John grimaced. "I think I came to say that to you."

"No stars in my eyes. Not this time."

John shook his head, rejecting the reference, the memory. "Sherlock Holmes is a good man, Seb."

"No he isn't. Not the way you want him to be."

He felt indignation, warm across his stomach. "You don't know him like I do."

"That much is certainly true." Moran drained his mug. "I think we're done here, for now. Meeting like this is possibly unwise for either of us." He reached out a hand to John. "It was good to see you again, though."

John pulled away, stood up, still annoyed. "According to Sherlock you've seen me before. Wrong end of a laser sight."

"No comment." Seb's mouth twisted upwards. "Operational issues."

"It's not funny!" He contemplated Seb's widening smile. "Okay, it's a bit funny." Only for two old soldiers. "But eight people died last night, Seb. Unarmed security guards, not soldiers, and Sherlock says you killed them. I thought if I talked to you I'd know that you couldn't have done it."

"Instead now you think I could have done?" Seb was dry, apparently unconcerned. 

John took a deep breath, met the sharp blue eyes. "No. I know Sherlock, but I know you as well. Nothing would have induced you to do it eight years ago. I don't think you've changed that much. I don't know what you're into, here, but you're still a good man."

"Me too? John Watson, you have an unshakeable belief in the virtue of the people around you. Attempting to live up to your expectations has always been almost too tempting to resist. Unfortunately I do have other commitments."

He pulled the door open. "Send my regards to Mr Holmes. I believe I owe him a set. I expect I'll see you both shortly in Scotland Yard if he's sufficiently insistent about pinning the zoo murders on me."

"What are you going to do about not talking about operational issues then, Seb?"

Sebastian looked back, amused. " I have done you the courtesy, as an ex-comrade in arms, of not spinning you the cover. I have no such scruples with the police."

"Or Sherlock?"

"Sherlock Holmes doesn't matter, not if the police won't act on his suspicions. Goodbye, John." His handshake was warm and tight and utterly unyielding.


	2. Afternoon Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's old friendship with Seb Moran draws Sherlock's interest, and Jim Moriarty's.

Sherlock was reading an online testimonial when John came up to look over his shoulder.

"Tigris Security is a bona fide business, accounts filed at Companies House, genuine customers, genuine payments, four employees and several subcontractors all currently out in Afghanistan and Pakistan carrying out commercial security services for satisfied clients. He didn't tell you anything."

John didn't bother asking how Sherlock had known that. 

"Operational issues, he said. Nothing. Not the zoo, not Moriarty, not being the sniper at the pool. He knew what I was talking about though, Sherlock. He's involved, somehow." 

He chucked his coat at the sofa, frustrated. He should have been able to get Seb to talk to him properly. The guy was a murder suspect and knew it. Even Moran's legendary nerve ought to be slipping a little, at that.

"I told you that. Did he talk about anything else?"

John switched his annoyance to Sherlock. "Yes, actually. He told me that you were mad, bad and dangerous to know."

Sherlock smirked at that. "Was that it?"

"He sent you his regards. Now why would Moriarty's bodyguard do that, Sherlock?"

"Courtesy? It's probably time to get Lestrade to pull him in for questioning."

John shook his head. "He's waiting for that. Says his cover story is ready. He seemed very confident, but then that's Seb Moran for you."

Sherlock frowned at John. "Is it? Tell me one thing that you remember about him. Not personal. Something about him as a soldier."

John could feel himself reddening slightly. "How did you...never mind. OK." He settled into his chair, tipped his head back, eyes half closed, remembering. It wasn't an incident he was ever likely to forget.

"There was a report of a medical emergency in a house right on the edge of the wild. An isolated household and they'd given us some useful info about the local insurgents, so my CO asked if I'd go, with Moran's unit as escort. I'd only met him a few days earlier; we'd barely spoken.

"It was a set up. There was a firefight, and we got split up. We could hear the rest of the patrol fifty yards away exchanging occasional fire with someone with a semi-automatic but Seb and I were holed up in this tiny room and a kid outside with a rifle taking pot shots if we went near the door. And I mean kid; about twelve, I reckon."

It had been the first time he'd come under fire and memory of the fear and the anger and frustration was still acute. Moran had been pressed up close up against him, absolutely silent after the first few snapped sentences, focussed on that door, rifle set. Almost as scary as the other side.

"Our cavalry were going to be on the way shortly, but Seb reckoned theirs would arrive first and then things would get even more messy. Every few seconds we'd catch a glimpse of the kid. Moran tried scaring him off with a few bullets but he wasn't running anywhere. Seb could have shot him half a dozen times over and taken out the semi-automatic by now. Rescued his men; real hero stuff. But he didn't."

He waited for Sherlock to ask what happened next, because narratives worked that way. Sherlock merely watched him, frowning slightly.

"Ok. Well, eventually five armed men turned up. Moran killed them with seven shots and left the kid shrieking over the bodies while he went to get his guys out."

"And got his commendation anyway. It's in his records."

"Yeah." John glared at the other man. "What do you deduce from that, Sherlock?"

"That he's got control, patience and judgement, and he follows orders. Moriarty's not careless in his choices."

Bloody hell! Sherlock was wrong! John slammed his hand down on the chair arm. "For God's sake, Sherlock. I know him far better than you do, and he's a decent man!" 

"Is that what you said to him about me?" 

"Yes! What I should have added is that you're both damn stubborn idiots! You're chasing the wrong person. Jim Moriarty must be laughing his head off round about now!"

"Jim Moriarty" Sherlock said, thoughtfully, "doesn't know about your connection to Moran. Or didn't, at least. I wonder how he'll react to having been kept in the dark about your affair."

"Hang on." That really needed clarifying. "It wasn't an affair, Sherlock. We were friends, and we ended up in bed two or three times. That's all."

"Which?"

"Which what?"

"Two times, or three?"

John closed his eyes. "Five." Opened them again. "And don't look smug. It's not relevant." 

"No? You've shown no inclination whatsoever to jump into bed with any of your male friends in the time you've lived here: your energies have been directly solely towards women. What made Moran different?"

He tried to come up with something, but it was difficult. He and Seb, it had just happened, really. No big deal. "I guess he was just good at picking his moments'"

"What sort of moments?"

"Do we have to talk about this?"

"It's for the case, John."

Sure it was. John was pretty sure that this had nothing to do with eight people dead. Also that Sherlock wouldn't let it go. "Angry ones, mostly, I guess. Not necessarily with him. I'd be furious about something and he'd just smile that lazy smile of his and figure out some way to get me alone."

"And then?"

"What do you mean, and then? You can use your imagination, Sherlock, if you really have to."

His flatmate was considering him, carefully. He didn't like the feeling. "Did you hurt him?"

"Seb? He's got several inches and at least two martial arts on me, and he's tough as nails. It would take a bloody tiger to hurt him."

"But you did fight."

"Yeah. We scuffled a bit." What was Sherlock thinking of him? "It's not... It's never been like that with anyone else. I'm not violent, Sherlock. I've never hit a woman. I don't need that."

"But the capacity is there." Sherlock was matter of fact. "Moran saw it. It's always been obvious to me. Moriarty..." His face paled. "I'm an idiot! Get the gun and your passport. I'll meet you downstairs. Hurry!"

Thoroughly unsettled, John moved without questions, met Sherlock at the front door.

"Stay out of sight until the cab door is open. Then run." Sherlock pushed the door open, strolled casually onto the street. He stood for a couple of minutes contemplating Speedy's menu as the traffic rolled by, then took a couple of quick steps to stop a taxi, seemingly at random.

John pelted across the pavement, threw himself inside. "What on earth...?"

"Not here." Sherlock was typing on his phone. He pressed send, looked out of the window, away from John, for the rest of the trip towards the City.

As they passed St Paul's Sherlock turned to him, murmured quietly. "Onto the bridge. Quick, but don't run." The taxi drew up close to the river. "Go."

The familiar sway of the Millennium footbridge under John's feet; he walked fast, aware of Sherlock at his shoulder. As they reached the centre Sherlock pulled in front of him, slowed until they were both shoulder to shoulder looking out at the wide, slow Thames.

"What the hell are we doing here?" John demanded.

"Making things difficult for Moran." 

Away from high buildings. "You think he's going to shoot at us?"

"Not us. You."

"No." John shook his head in irritation. Sherlock hadn't been listening to him at all. "I know Seb doesn't want to kill me."

"No, he doesn't. But Moriarty isn't going to give him a choice. It's not just an old friendship that he's concealed from Jim for months. It's a rival. Jim Moriarty won't tolerate that, not for a moment. Moran's in very deep trouble and killing you may well be his only chance for forgiveness, and survival."

This was crazy. "I'm no rival to Moriarty! He might think you are, but never me! He doesn't think anything of me."

"You're a rival for Moran's attention. That will be enough." 

He hadn't seen Seb for years. This was insane. "We can't stay out here forever."

"Working on that. I'm waiting for a reply."

"From whom?" Who could get them out of this? "Your brother?"

"No." His phone rang and he flicked it on. "Good afternoon Jim. How's the new rug?"

Sherlock held the phone to his ear, listening, for a very long time. "Not acceptable." Another long pause. John could hear the voice hissing just below decipherable level."Spare me your paranoia. None of us knew, except Moran. Do what you like to him."

John shifted, ready to protest but Sherlock waved him into silence, still listening to Moriarty. "Negotiating." Pause. "Name it and I'll consider." A couple of seconds later he thumbed the phone off, dropped it in his pocket.

"Well?" John took a deep breath, pushed down the trepidation. "What the fuck have you promised him, Sherlock?"

"So far? Tea at the Dorchester, five fifteen pm. He'll book the table."

The anti-climax had John staring at Sherlock in confusion.

"A hotel? Can't you just get Lestrade to arrest him there?"

"Not without things getting very messy, no."

John wasn't letting Sherlock go off to meet Moriarty again. "I'm coming with you. Don't even think of arguing."

Sherlock blinked at him. "Didn't I say? He invited you, this time."

"Oh. Good." Tea with Jim Moriarty. Lovely.

Sherlock was striding back across the bridge. "He'll call Moran off for now. We should make the most of it. Taxidermists."

"Sorry?"

"Jim won't entrust that hide to anyone but an expert, and he won't wait."

Museums, gunshops. An hour and a half later they'd identified one of the capital's leading taxidermist by a short string of missed appointments and unanswered emails. 

"His home, next?"

"No time. Lestrade can pick it up. We need to get back to 221B. You'll want to change."

"Dress up for Jim Moriarty?" John was scathing. "If he wants to talk to me he can put up with what I'm wearing."

Sherlock was amused. "For the Dorchester's tea room, then?"

"No! Anytime you want to take me out for posh tea I'll smarten up. Not for him."

That got another smile. "Elderly jumper and jeans it is then. That gives us time to drop into the Yard."

 

Lestrade was looking considerably more harassed than he had a few hours earlier. "Sherlock. For God's sake tell me you've got our man. Did you see that press conference? Absolute bloody murder!"

"Adrian Trenton. Taxidermist. Moriarty's kidnapped or possibly just hired him to deal with the tiger skin."

"So where is he?"

"I've no idea. I suggest you try looking. Also I need your latest forensic report with the tests I ordered."

Lestrade waved an irritated hand. "Get it from Anderson. Is that really all you've got?"

"So far, yes. We're following a lead. How's the surveillance on Moran getting on?"

Lestrade looked disgusted. "Took an hour or so to set up, then we promptly lost him for a couple of hours, then he turned up back at his office, did paperwork for ages, went out ten minutes ago to post some letters and slipped my guys again. He knows he's being tailed?"

"Of course. Was he injured at all, when he came back?"

Lestrade frowned. "Report didn't mention it. So should I pick him up next time he surfaces? Because I've got absolutely no-one else, so far. I could at least see what he has to say."

"Not yet. Give us time." Sherlock glanced at the office clock. "Talking of time, we need to be off."

"Keeping you from a hot date, am I?" Lestrade waved a hand. "You might as well go and have fun. Some of us are going to be working all night."

"Not keeping me, no." Sherlock smoothed his collar up and started to the door. "Get Anderson to send the report by email. Better still, do it yourself. Don't forget."

 

The taxi pulled up on the edge of Hyde Park. John glanced across the road at the hotel, started towards the crossing. Sherlock checked him.

"It doesn't do to be too prompt. We might as well take a walk, first." He turned into the park interior.

"A walk, Sherlock? Come on, what's up?" Was the detective nervous about the meeting? John was frankly terrified, and determined not to show it. Moriarty was not sane, could do anything at all.

Sherlock took a few paces in silence, then began. 

"It is possible that Moriarty will choose to make certain assertions about our meeting last month."

"Okay," John said cautiously. "Is that a problem? I mean, he's not going to kill me for knowing stuff that he tells me himself, surely?"

"Probably not. However Jim sees his relationship with me in an unusual way. It might be described as having erotic undertones.

Erotic? Moriarty with Sherlock? John couldn't think of anything more unlikely. "He's not going to tell me you two had sex, is he? Because I'll probably laugh in his face and them he'll have to have me murdered, which is not a particularly good end to what has been a pretty unsatisfying day."

"No, it isn't. So if you could avoid laughing, that would be good. Try for that man-of-the-world air, if you can. No outbursts of any sort."

John stopped walking. "He is going to say that, then?"

"Probably, yes."

"But you didn't. Of course." 

"Events might have occurred that he interprets that way. The term covers a very wide range of activity."

"Yes it does." Of all the stupid, insane, incomprehensible things to do. To let Moriarty think for a moment that he had that sort of connection... what was Sherlock playing at? "Which particular activity can I look forward to being told about?"

"He might not even mention it. Time we were going in." Sherlock was walking faster. Why would he...? Shit. He might not have been given a choice. John caught his arm.

"God, Sherlock. Did he do any... unwanted... stuff to you?"

Sherlock looked down at him, expressionless. "Certainly not."

And with that John had to be satisfied for the moment because Sherlock wasn't slowing down again.

 

There were several groups in front of them at the doors to the tea rooms. As they waited a waiter approached John.

"Excuse me, Sir. I'm afraid there is a dress code."

"Fine." John snapped. "We'll leave. I didn't want..."

Sherlock spoke over him. "We're guests of Mr Moriarty."

"Ah. This way, please, gentlemen."

John walked behind Sherlock, trying not to look too out of place. Orange marble pillars, huge ferns; this wasn't quite what he'd expected from tea. 

They were led to a corner with two plush couches on either side on the white tablecloth, on which an unopened bottle of champagne stood in a silver bucket. Each couch had a single occupant. Moriarty, in deep red embroidered waistcoat, greeted him with a huge smile, all teeth, Moran, in a plain black suit, was studying the cup of tea in front of him, didn't look up at all. What the fuck had Seb got himself into?

John stopped.

"Sir?" The waiter was waiting for him to sit. He didn't like either of the options. Sherlock took the decision from him, moving past him to take the cushion next to Moriarty. John slid in next to Moran, careful not to touch him. The waiter poured them tea, departed, and another arrived with platters of crustless finger sandwiches.

"Well. This is delightful, isn't it?" Jim's eyes were bright. "Isn't it, Sebastian?"

Seb lifted his head, looked briefly across at Sherlock. "Good evening, Mr Holmes." And without turning, "John."

Sherlock was eating a sandwich. John thought that looked like a good excuse not to talk. They were remarkably nice, even though his stomach was churning. He kept his eyes between Sherlock and his plate as he ate. Sherlock was watching Moran, whose focus was back on his cup. No-one appeared to be paying any attention to Moriarty. He wondered how long the man would tolerate that.

About fifteen seconds. 

"Do you like this music?" Jim enquired to the table in general. 

John looked across automatically to the small quartet playing on the dais. It was innocuous enough, he thought. Classical music wasn't really his forte. 

Sherlock sighed. "Do you really have to make a scene about every little thing, Jim? The musicians are adequate. I believe there will be scones in a few minutes. John is particularly fond of scones."

Moriarty's response was hissed. "I don't much care for John's preferences. Unlike everyone else here I'm not particularly fond of John. "

"The feeling," John said, a little more aggressively than he'd meant to, "is mutual."

"Precisely." The hiss became a purr. "You and I, Johnny boy, have the only uncomplicated relationship out of everyone around this table. We'd both simply like each other dead, full stop. It's quite refreshing, and so easily resolved."

Join wasn't arguing with that. Except, the only one? He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, took another sandwich.

"You are rather overstating my attachment to your henchman, Jim. If you recall, we didn't bond." Sherlock sounded thoroughly uninvolved.

"I think you did, a teensy bit. What do you think, Seb?"

"You don't pay me to have attachments. Just follow orders." His voice was low.

"Ah, but you don't, petal." Moriarty's voice turned to an erratic whine. "You keep things from me, Sebastian. Important things. Why is that?"

Moran raised his head to look at his employer. "It was a mistake. I'm sorry." John could see the tension in the twitch of the hand lying next to his own. The Seb Moran he remembered didn't apologise to anyone.

"Of course you're sorry now. Nobody wants to die horribly. Answer the question." Jim's voice was oddly gentle.

"Because you'd tell me to off him as soon as you knew." Seb's voice was low but clear. "If you needed him dead for business, fine, I'd do it, but I didn't want him killed just because we'd screwed a couple of times years back."

"Five times, apparently." Sherlock said. John kicked him under the table. A waiter approached.

"Can I bring you gentlemen some fresh tea, and scones?"

"Wonderful!" Jim's voice was high and delighted. "That would be just lovely, thank you." As the waiter cleared the table he turned to Sherlock. "You see what I have to put up with? What would you do in my situation? Be honest, now."

"I'm not interested in your employee problems. Resolve them as you like, as long as you leave my interests alone."

"No." John was pretty sure that Sherlock would want him to keep quiet, but Seb's current troubles had apparently come from protecting him. He couldn't let that pass. "Whatever you're negotiating here covers both of us."

Now everyone was looking at him, and no-one looked pleased. After a few seconds Moriarty shook his head.

"That's very generous of you. Very considerate. Tell me, who do you imagine will be paying the frankly astronomical price to keep both of you alive? Because you have nothing to bargain with, John Watson. Nothing at all."

Sherlock. Who could say no; he wasn't going to deal for Moran's safety as well. But he'd sat back looking a little weary and distinctly unhappy and John knew with a pang of guilt that he would do it. 

John was tempted for a moment to take the claim back, leave Seb to Jim, but he'd tipped his hand and chances were Moriarty would kill his sniper out of spite, now. Which was why Moran looked ready to murder John. One short sentence and he'd screwed up everything. God, he hated Jim Moriarty!

Here came scones, and jam and cream, and fresh tea poured by waiters with warm smiles, all utterly incongruous. Laughter came from the tables nearest to them. Moriarty buttered a scone, apparently utterly focussed on the task, and John realised with unease that the rest of the table was watching the man as if there was something to be learned from the quick movements. He looked away, tried putting jam on his own scone, but something dragged his gaze back to Jim, his hands stilling of their own accord.

Eventually Moriarty took a bite, looked across at John again. He spoke around a mouthful of scone, "Does this rekindled affection of yours extend to keeping him out of prison? There is the trivial matter of ten corpses at the Zoo."

John could feel Moran shift beside him. He had no idea what that meant. For a moment he considered claiming again his faith in his friend's innocence, but that faith had been shaken; Seb was here, with Jim, had talked about killing for him. All three of them might just laugh at his naivety.

"I don't believe there's any evidence to convict." That should be safe enough.

Jim smiled like a gecko. "Like to see some?" He pulled a glossy smartphone out of his pocket, tilted the screen towards John. A naked man, sprawled face down- Seb; John knew that figure intimately, but what the hell had happened to his back?- on an unevenly orange and black striped surface. 

Sherlock's hand came out to seize the phone and turn it round so he could see it. "Sumatran," he confirmed to John. "The pattern of stripes is distinctive." And to Moriarty, "You couldn't wait until it was tanned, then? Your obsession is filthily unhygenic. Did you at least sterilise the claws?"

"He didn't use them." Seb spoke out unexpectedly, with a touch of something that might have been regret. "Work to do."

John had only the vaguest idea of what they were talking about, but that was enough to turn his stomach. A photo of Seb on the dead tiger's skin; he supposed that was proof enough. He'd been wrong. Seb Moran was nothing but a brutal killer after all, and Jim Moriarty's boyfriend to boot. 

"Poor John." Moriarty was delighted. "He's really not the hero you were dreaming of, is he?" And, lower, conspiratorial, "Don't you think it would be better on reflection to just leave Sebastian to me?"

He didn't know. He couldn't think. All those dead bodies, this morning. Seb, silent next to him. And Sherlock would have to pay and he still had no idea how... "Sherlock?" His voice was quiet.

Jim cackled. "Finally it dawns on the man that he's way out of his depth! Go on, Sherlock. Your turn."

The waiter approached. "Would you like me to serve the champagne, gentlemen?"

"Not quite yet." Moriarty grinned at him. "I imagine that I may shortly have something to celebrate. Sherlock, pet? I'm waiting?"

Sherlock had pulled out his phone in response to an alert, was scrolling through something, ignoring Moriarty.

"Sherlock!"

"Yes?" He looked up, finally. 

"What's that?" Jim spat out the words.

"Forensic report. You were asking?"

"Give it to me."

"Why would you need it? You already know what happened." He slipped the phone back into his pocket. "I intend to make sure that the murderer at the Zoo lives long enough to stand trial. Does that answer your question?"

"Don't be flippant with me, sweet." Moriarty's voice was cold. "I can ensure that you regret it."

"I'm never flippant." Sherlock turned a shoulder to Jim. "Isn't it time you contributed something, Moran?"

Seb shrugged."It's all talk. You've still got nothing on me."

Moriarty laughed."Not yet. But I could give them all they need. Couldn't I, Sebastian? "

"Yes." Expressionless. 

"Shall I do it?"

Moran shrugged again. "You're the boss. You'll do what you want."

Cat and mouse. John felt sickened by both of them. "So if you're a damn gunman why the fuck haven't you just shot the bastard?" he demanded of Seb, a little too loudly. The table nearest to them turned to stare.

Seb smiled, without humour. "Why haven't you?" His eyes flickered to the concealed gun in John's belt.

Not yet justified self defence, but he could hope. 

"John." Sherlock's voice was a warning.

"Fine. Can we get on with whatever we're doing here, Sherlock? My appetite has gone in this company." He glared across at Moriarty, who blew him a kiss.

"Come on, Sherlock. Make me an offer for them," he purred.

"How should I know what you want?" Sherlock countered.

"You're the deductive mastermind. Take your best shot."

Sherlock was looking down at his long fingers, interlaced. "Twenty four hours." God. John stayed silent with an effort.

"Don't be stupid. " Jim shook his head, disappointed. "I could have you for a day anytime I want. Make me a real offer. Something I can't just take." He brushed scone crumbs off his fingers, waved at the staff. "More tea, please."

"Forget it, Sherlock." John couldn't listen to any more of this. "I'll take my chances. I can defend myself. So could Seb, if he wanted to."

Sherlock lifted his head to meet John's eyes. "The odds aren't good. This is really not your area, John. Be quiet and leave it to me."

Moriarty just sniggered. John wondered what would happen if he slapped the man. A lecture from his flatmate, at the least. 

"So, something you can't take." Sherlock went back to contemplating his hands. "I can offer you something considerably more interesting than mere compliance."

"Like?"

"Originality."

Moriarty turned scathing. "You didn't show much originality last time, did you? You didn't do anything except lie back and take it, as I recall, and nor did Sebastian. I had to do all the work. Hardly an inspiring prospect for next time."

"It wasn't necessary then. Now it's on offer."

"Sherlock, darling!" Jim sounded exasperated. "Your entire sexual experience had been limited to an excellent blow job that I got the most cursory of thanks for and a bit of voyeurism. You may think this is enough to make you into a daemon lover, but I'm going to need rather more convincing." 

He looked across the table. "John's not buying it either. He's been wondering whether to have a go at you for months now but he didn't think a fumbling self obsessed virgin would be worth the effort. Why don't you try to persuade both of us? I get the first few rides, obviously, but he might get the crumbs."

John's hand impacted hard and flat against Moriarty's cheek, in a silence that seemed to go further than their table. Why someone hadn't thrown them out by now he didn't know. He leaned further forward to hiss, "You're a sick little beast. Ever been offered anything you don't bully or blackmail someone into? "

Moriarty's eyes were wide, staring at him. Sherlock was muttering "Don't!" in urgent warning but John wasn't interested. He was watching the red mark flare across Jim's cheek, waiting for a response.

And oh God but platters of cake were arriving, now, in a rush, speechless waiters trying to head off a scene. As the silence lengthened he reached out for a slice of chocolate cake, attempting to look in control, and his fingers brushed Moran's, headed for the same piece. 

"Still going for the sweet stuff every time? It's all yours." Seb flipped his hand over, offering the cake. Oh fuck, the man couldn't start flirting with him now? He'd lost his temper and Seb, bloody idiot that he was, was reacting to that. Of course. Even when his psychopathic boss was likely to kill them both for it.

Jim sat back in his chair, unsmiling. "Sebastian. Why don't you take the over-excitable doctor out for some fresh air while Sherlock and I have a little chat?"

John shook his head. "I don't think so."

"I do." Sherlock, definite. "Go away, John. You're being a hindrance."

"That's because what you're proposing is insane, and you know it. What makes you think I'm going to let you prostitute yourself to this animal?" His voice had risen again. The people at the next table were collecting up their bags and leaving.

"What makes you think you have any say over the matter?" Sherlock was impatient, dismissive. "Who I choose to have sex with is, I believe, my business. Isn't that how it works? I don't recall you ever asking my permission first."

"It's a choice, is it?" John clenched a fist. 

"Of course it is. I would be hardly likely to offer myself if I found the idea repugnant. Don't be utterly naive, John. Why do you think I went to that assignation last month?"

Oh God. They'd met up- Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty had met up- for sex. Sherlock had wanted those slimy hands all over him, had wanted Jim's mouth touching him- John found himself nauseous. He looked across at the tall man, that clear, arrogant expression, and next to him Jim Moriarty grinning like a deformed ape. 

"Did you...have you let him...?" For some reason it seemed essential that he knew how far it had gone.

"Not yet." Sherlock sounded calm.

"Not yet? Bloody hell, Sherlock! I really don't know what to say." Real anger was building. How could Sherlock do this to him, after everything they'd gone through together? 

"Say nothing. Go away. I'll call when we're done here."

Go away was clear message enough. "Right." He stood up. "Right, then." And he started to walk out. Behind him Jim's voice, cold and amused, hissed "Behave, now," and he had no idea which of the three of them the words were spoken to.


	3. Watching the Detective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John confronts Seb about the zoo killings and gets an unexpected response.

Halfway across the lobby of the Dorchester John stopped to scroll through the numbers on his phone, looking for Lestrade's. Messy didn't matter any more, only that Moriarty was stopped. He'd make the call, get straight back in there, stop Sherlock from doing anything stupid. Anything more stupid than he'd already done. Jim Moriarty. Fuck.

He was about to dial when the phone was snatched out of his hand.

"Hey!" He chased Moran through the revolving doors. The Park Lane traffic was busy in both directions; cars braked and horns sounded as they both dodged across. Straight over the pavement and into the twilight gloom of Hyde Park, and Seb was running at full tilt, those extra inches of legs carrying him steadily further away from his pursuer. John had just about resigned himself to losing him when Seb headed into the darkness under a clump of trees, stopped, and turned.

John stopped too, a couple of feet away, breathing fast.

"Give me my phone."

"Can't." Seb spread his empty hands. "I dropped it in the road. It will be fragments by now."

John's first thought was for the lost link to Sherlock. "Then give me yours."

"No." Even in the near dark he could see the gleam of teeth. Seb probably had a gun. Seb had killed eight people this morning. Seb was... still Seb, and asking for this.

"Fuck you, Moran." John charged, barreling one shoulder against the man's chest so that they both went backwards into a tree trunk. There was a scramble of fists and a tangle of legs and they were down on the grass and tussling, guns untouched. On top, he got an elbow into Seb's face below him, took a blow to the gut, pinned one wrist against the ground but couldn't hold onto the other. Seb's free fingers jabbed towards his eyes, were blocked by his forearm, leaving himself open for the second, harder blow into his stomach that winded him completely. By the time he could breathe again Moran had rolled them both over and was above him, trapping him tight against the grass.

The man was grinning. "Still more temper then sense, John Watson. Did you really think you could take me?"

John knew the way this would go. They'd trade a couple of old, familiar insults and then Seb would drop down to his elbows, his mouth rough and warm against John's, hard erection pushing against him and the next round of the fight would end with someone's cock inside someone else and it would be hot and fast and glorious. For a moment he was tempted, to wipe the thought of Sherlock with Jim away. But Seb had been there too.

"Get off me, Seb. You chose Jim fucking Moriarty!"

"So did Holmes. I warned you."

"You want to talk about Sherlock, you get the fuck off me now, Moran. He's no part of this."

Seb pulled back, and John made a late and futile grab for his gun as it went with the other man. He froze, propped up on his elbows on the grass, looking down the barrel of his own loaded weapon.

"Don't," he said, very quiet but he knew he was heard, "point that at me."

Moran held it there an instant longer than was tolerable, then unloaded it, fast and competent. The ammo went into a back pocket. The gun was dropped next to John's head.

He climbed to his feet, slowly, furious. No-one held a loaded weapon on him for their own entertainment. "Did you really think I was going to waste a bullet on you, Sebastian? You're not worth one."

"Not on me, no. You slapped him, John. In public. And you're crazy mad jealous enough about your boyfriend's infatuation with him to try something even stupider."

"I'm not..." gay, John started out of habit, remembered who he was talking to. "Jealous. He's my friend and your employer is vicious and insane. I don't want Moriarty anywhere near him."

"He wants it. He knows what he's doing."

"Sherlock? He doesn't know the first thing about sex."

Moran laughed. "He's a fast study. Shall I tell you what turned him on?"

"Don't tell me it was you." John was scathing, but underneath he felt a sudden panic. Sherlock hadn't done it with Seb, as well. Surely.

"God, no! He's not my type; all control and calculation. I'd rather fuck a bloody laptop."

"Or Jim Moriarty."

"Yeah. Or him." A long second's silence. "Look, there are reasons." And, a touch belligerent, "I don't care if you don't understand, John." 

"I don't understand any of this. You and Sherlock both; like lambs to the fucking slaughter as far as I see it. Is he going to kill you?"

The dark silhouette shrugged. "He's royally pissed off with me, certainly. But what he thinks and what he does don't always match. His ideas of punishment can be pretty bizarre."

"And that's what you like?"

A pause. "Yeah, pretty much. You going to pretend you didn't know that all along?"

They were no longer talking about Moriarty. John sighed, uncomfortably aware of Seb's body, close. "Didn't do either of us any harm. Did it?"

"Didn't then, won't now. Come on, John." Moran moved forward into his space. "You might have left the army but you still carry a gun. Show me you haven't changed."

John wanted nothing more than to punch him again. He didn't.

"There's blood on your hands, now, Seb. I don't want them touching me."

"There's blood on all our hands. Mine no worse than some others, and at least for a purpose."

"What purpose? A fucking rug?"

He couldn't read the face close to his in the dark but he heard the sigh. "What do you think the forensics told Holmes, John? Why do you think the boss was so interested?"

John knew better than to believe him. "Moriarty said it was you."

"No he didn't. He said he could set a trail that led to me. "

"You're saying you're innocent?" A moment of baffled hope. But there had been that photo.

"Innocent? No. I've killed way too many people for Jim Moriarty. But I wasn't at the zoo this morning. And I shouldn't be telling you that much but to hell with it; Holmes knows already and once he's finished getting it on with Moriarty he'll tell you himself."

Getting it on. Sherlock and Jim. Negotiating God only knows what obscenities over cake and champagne, and Sherlock couldn't call him if he needed him. He turned away from the confusion that was Seb.

"I need to get back there."

Seb's voice turned urgent. "No. I know Moriarty. You turn up at that table again without an express invite and all your partner's careful negotiations will be for nothing. You hit him, John. He wants what Holmes is offering badly or he would never have let you loose after that." 

His hand came out to seize John's arm, stopping him getting back to Sherlock. John's suspicions flared again. Seb killed men for Moriarty. Killed.

"Let loose?" he snarled. "I've got you as watcher, haven't I? He gets bored of playing with Sherlock, he send you a quick text and you put a bullet in me. That's what you do, isn't it?" 

That's why they were out here in the dark. Not a quick shag for old times sake, though God knows Seb might take that first. He needed to get to somewhere safe, or at least more public. He needed to find Sherlock. He pulled away, ready to run back towards the distant hotel.

Seb's fist collided with the side of John's head and he stumbled down onto his knees. A kick to his chest sent him over backwards, sprawled on his back across the tree roots.

"Damn it, John. Your boyfriend and I are both trying to keep you alive here. Don't make our job any more impossible."

He rolled back onto his feet, rage seething. How dare the man pretend..."Don't give me that shit, Sebastian! You work for him! You hadn't spoken to me before today for eight fucking years! I'm no more to you than a couple of old memories of getting your leg over. There is absolutely no way you'd go up against Jim Moriarty for my sake. Do you think I'm an idiot?"

Seb was close up, looking down on him, hands clenched. "Listen to me! I'm not going to kill you and not just because all those golden memories of getting my arse kicked. But go back in now and Jim Moriarty will put you down on the spot." He paused. "He's a very good shot. And sometimes he likes getting his own hands bloody."

Oh. "Can he skin a dead tiger, too?"

"Oh yes." Dry.

"He did set you up!" He'd been right. Sherlock had been wrong. "Why?"

"I overstepped a mark. He gets his way, John, always. You're right; I'm not going up against him, because I'd lose. The best way to keep you alive is to have him not want you dead, and the only reasons he might not want you dead is because he can use you or play with you. Irritate him enough and he'll just do it anyway."

"Sherlock's alone there with him."

"Holmes can handle him." There was bitterness in Seb's voice. "Two of a kind. They'll always end up on their feet, looking down on the bodies."

"Sherlock doesn't leave corpses behind." John spat at Seb. "He's got no use for a 'personal sniper'. How the fuck can you be judgemental about him?"

"Because he knows damn well how you feel about him and yet right now he's trading his fucking virginity to my boss for kicks, that's how!" Seb's voice touched on raw for the first time.

Silence. John took one astonished step backwards.

"You've got it in for Sherlock on *my* account?"

Seb raised a defensive hand. "I wouldn't have liked him anyway. Arrogant son of a bitch. But yeah. He's treated you like shit."

"What the fuck do you think you know about it?"

Seb shrugged. "Been watching you for months, on and off, haven't I? Orders." And, a little hurriedly, "Didn't pass on those particular observations. Boss can draw his own conclusions; doesn't need mine."

"So you think that spying on me gives you the right to say things like that?" John was furious.

"Didn't think you'd like it. Doesn't stop it being true, though. He's cold and selfish and way too fond of Jim's games. You could do a hell of a lot better."

"Oh, could I?" John hissed at him. "Is that what this is about? You want to just pick up where we left off? You, me and your murderous psychopathic lover, or were you planning to dump him? I'm sure he'd take that well. Jesus, Seb!"

The dark figure in front of him had gone very still.

"John." Quiet.

"Well? Going to get down on one knee and propose, maybe? Come on, Sebastian. Explain to me how a hired fucking killer is a better man than Sherlock Holmes and I'll knock your fucking teeth out."

"I'd like to see you try."

"Yeah. Pervert." 

Seb laughed. "That the best you can do? Come on, John. Holmes hasn't got time for you tonight; he's otherwise engaged. You can play that game too. We both can."

"And then Moriarty can kill me for screwing around with you. Not a chance." 

There was a sudden bright glow; a phone screen in Seb's hands.

"What are you doing?"

"Text," Moran said, briefly. "He wants us back. Last chance." He lunged forward, hands around John's face, kissed him hard, let him go. "Be careful in there. Your Sherlock knows what he's doing, and so do I. You don't."

John turned away from him, towards the road, trying to ignore the effect of stubble against his cheek and tongue rough in his mouth. Sherlock needed him. Seb was a distraction, that was all. Seb belonged to Jim Moriarty. Seb was one of the bad guys, now.

 

As they walked up to the entrance of the tearooms a gentleman with a manager's label badge came to meet them.

"I'm afraid these rooms are closed this evening. Evening tea is being taken in the main restaurant instead."

A waiter leaned over for a quick word in his ear. The man's eyes widened. "Ah. If you'd like to join your companions..." He opened the door behind him.

The tea rooms were empty of both patrons and staff, except in the far corner where Moriarty had moved to the middle of the couch, his arms spread across the back. The cakes were still on their platters, the champagne bottle open and empty. 

"Where's Sherlock?" 

"Guess." Moriarty was flushed and grinning.

John glanced round. "Gents?"

"Closer. Much closer."

Seb jerked his head at the tablecloth. "Under there."

"Sebastian!" Jim chided. "I wanted him to guess." John glanced despite himself at Moriarty's groin, saw the top of unbuttoned flies, the twitch of the tablecloth. Oh God. Seb's hand rested on his arm, warning.

"He's not bad," Moriarty said cheerfully. "Bit clumsy to start with, but he takes instructions like a real whore. A little deeper now, sweet. Don't want to keep your friend waiting too long." He tipped his head back and groaned. "Yes, just like that." Under half lowered lids he was watching John's face.

What on earth should he do? Scream at Moriarty? Scream at Sherlock? Hit Jim? Overturn the table? Walk out? John tried to compose himself, think. Moriarty's hands were both visible and nowhere near a weapon, while his most vulnerable bits were apparently somewhere between Sherlock's teeth. Sherlock had the physical upper hand here. He didn't need John to rescue him. 

Was there any other form of coercion going on? Probably. But without knowing what and how John couldn't help. Moriarty groaned again, louder, his breath panting faster. If John were Sherlock he wouldn't want himself watching. He looked around for the discreet toilet sign. "Excuse me," he said to anyone in hearing range, yanked his sleeve back from Seb and moved.

Moran caught up with him between the marbled walls of the gents. 

"He said to tell you to stop being prudish and get back there."

John glared at him. "I don't give a damn what your boss says."

Seb frowned. "Wasn't the boss who said it."

"Sherlock? Did he sound OK?"

Seb shrugged. "Irritated, mainly. I think he was quite into it and wasn't keen on the interruption. You'd better move. He doesn't like it when you hold him up."

True enough. Sherlock throwing clothes on his bed this morning. Sherlock wanted him back to watch. Prudish, he'd called him.

"Sod that. He can wait." He wasn't rushing back to be a reluctant spectator.

Seb nodded, apparently unsurprised but approving. "Manipulative bastards, both of them." He crossed to the urinal, spoke over his shoulder. "Boss won't let you just watch, you know. He'll flaunt Sherlock at you till you're hard. Then he'll make you play."

"Christ, Seb!" John felt sick. Could Moriarty do that? The thought of Sherlock on his knees and naked; even in his stressed and angry state that got a twinge of arousal.

"We could fix that." Seb washed his hands, turned back to John, crowding him up against the tiles. "Ten minutes here and we're both our own men for a couple of hours at least." Blue eyes caught his, sharp and eager. 

"Christ!" he said again, unsettled by the surge of temptation, shoved Seb hard in the chest. "This you knowing what you're doing, is it?" This was crazy.

"Yes."Seb had braced himself against the push, hadn't moved. Now his hands caught John's, pushed them flat each side against the marble. Thighs pressed against trapped thighs. His face dipped down to John's, kissed him fast and pulled back. "Trust me."

John twisted free. "Not a chance!" He ached for the lost contact, though. Too much talk about sex, too much physical touch, too much Seb; he was half erect now, couldn't possibly face Moriarty like this. Damn Moran! 

"Fuck you." He pulled his wallet out of his pocket for coins for the condom machine on the wall. Seb was smiling, now; John punched him in the stomach, hard enough to hurt, not enough to damage, dragged him round to face the wall, ripped his trousers down, slammed the heel of his hand between Seb's shoulders to keep him there. Not that Moran would struggle, if past experience was a guide. 

John was way more than half hard now. Not thinking of Sherlock at all, he told himself as he rolled the condom on single-handed and pushed. The back of Seb's thighs quivered and the man exhaled fast. 

"God, John. Yes."

"Shut up!" He shoved harder, Seb hot and tight and moving in counterpoint. All the anger of the day boiled over into this; it took no more than a dozen thrusts to have him over the top, dizzy, catching his breath, slowly, calmer now. He looked down as he grasped the condom carefully, caught sight of Moran's lower back.

"What the fuck?" He pulled out abruptly and Seb snarled at him, but he was occupied pulling jacket and shirt off Moran's shoulders. In the bright lighting the vivid scars almost fluoresced. A doctor's automatic assessment; deep, deep scratches, some old, some very recent.

"Who did this?"

"Who do you think? Can it wait?" Moran's right hand was around his own erection, jerking fast. John felt a sudden thud of desire for the familiar touch.

"Hey." He slid down onto his knees. "Here."

"Oh fuck, that's good. Eight years I've missed this." Hands smoothed through John's hair. "Throw the bastard out and let me move in instead."

"Shut up or I'll bite you." John mumbled through a mouthful of Moran. If he'd missed it too he wasn't going to admit that. 

Seb stayed silent after that, only the faster breathing warning John that the climax was close. Done, he stood up. Seb was watching him, inscrutable again."We'd better tidy up and get back there. They're going to be livid."

"Are you sure Moriarty won't kill us on sight? You said not to irritate him and we've sure as hell done that."

Seb shrugged. "Anything's possible. But I think it's unlikely. We've gone too far, and he likes showing off for Sherlock."

" A fate worse than death then. Great. This day just gets better."

"Yeah." Seb flashed a dry smile at him. "It does."

 

Moran led the way back to the table. Sherlock had reappeared opposite Moriarty. He looked across to John.

"There's fresh tea."

"Lovely. Budge up a bit." Things seemed far simpler now. He even managed to catch Moriarty's eye without flinching as he poured himself tea. 

"My phone got broken," he told Sherlock. "I'll have to pick up a new one tomorrow."

"Did you recover the sim card?"

"Nope. Whole thing's gone."

Sherlock sighed. "That's a nuisance." A sharp look across at Moran, who was leaning against an apricot pillar looking inscrutable again. "You should be a little more careful, John."

"Yeah. Thanks for that. It's just a phone." He reached out for cake, hungry all of a sudden.

Moriarty yawned. "Dull, dull soap opera. I'm surprised you can bear it, Sherlock."

"You can always leave," Sherlock said, mildly.

"Indeed I can." Moriarty slid to the end of the couch. "I will see you very shortly, sweet." He started to walk out and Moran fell in behind him. Jim wheeled. 

"Not you! You don't get to play for both teams, Sebastian, dear."

"We don't want him!" Sherlock looked faintly disgusted.

"Tough. I take my responsibilities as a pet owner seriously and I've just rehomed him with you. If I catch this dog wandering the streets alone I'll have him put down." He turned back and walked out, leaving Sherlock and Moran staring at each other in some dismay.


	4. A Man about a Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three's an awkward number at 221B

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Acquired one extra chapter. Next will be the last.

"Sainsbury's will still be open. Pick up a phone there, text me the number, take him to Baker Street and stay there."

Sherlock swept his coat up and glared at Moran as he wrapped his scarf around his neck.

"And where are you going?" John asked. 

"Not any of his business. You can't play for both sides either, John."

"What?" John took a moment to process that. "Hey! I'm not the one who started this!"

"I'm working. You're merely succumbing to temptation, and a remarkably unappealing one at that. There's something very wrong about him. Go home, stay there, and don't let him near anything at all of mine."

Moran was carefully expressionless. John knew this was not the place to have this out with Sherlock. "We're going to talk about this when you get home!"

"About your bringing home a stray serial killer? Really? Buy that phone." He stalked out, leaving John to look around the deserted tea rooms.

"Damn the man. Should I pay, do you think?"

Seb laughed. "You're the only one of the four of us who would contemplate it. No, John. We don't pay. We leave the poor sods counting their blessings that we're finally gone with no bodies on the tiles."

"I don't think I like 'us' all that much."

"Finally." Seb's mouth twisted upwards. "We're getting past all that 'good man' crap." Come on. You can pay for the phone, if it makes you feel better."

 

"I don't have to like him all the time. Nobody does." John explained as they looked around the supermarket aisles. 

"No." Seb agreed.

"He's not usually this bad. It's Moriarty. The man does something to him."

"Yes."

"He's doing this for me. Mostly."

Silence.

"Come on, Seb! Jim wanted me dead because you didn't tell him about us. Didn't he?"

"Yeah." Reluctantly.

"Sherlock negotiated something. Didn't he?"

"Seems like it."

"So, then. You put my life at risk. He's saving it. Who should I be most pissed off with, Seb?"

"Who are you most pissed off with, then?"

John sighed. "Him. What does that say?" He pulled down a mobile phone box at random. "Know anything about phones? Which of these should I buy? "

"I could hack any one of these in fifteen seconds. Buy a cheap one now and we'll go to Tottenham Court Road tomorrow. You're pissed off with him because since it turns out that he does sex after all he bloody well ought to do it with you, not Jim Moriarty. And you've got a point."

When had he stopped even denying that? Silence while they negotiated the checkout and a cab. It wasn't a long walk home but John felt less exposed by taxi. Back in the flat he settled in his chair to put the phone together and send Sherlock's text, while Moran made coffee.

"What's Moriarty like, anyway? Up close?"

Seb snorted. "Insane."

"That stuff on your back; is that what that was?"

Moran brought the coffee out, stripped off jacket and shirt, indicated the deepest of the scars. "Those ones were a tiger. The rest were the boss."

John stood up to look closer at the manmade scarring. "Going back a couple of years?"

"Twenty months."

"That's a lot of damage."

"Two blood transfusions, so far. He's not always so careful about avoiding arteries when he's having fun."

"Hell, Seb! You got a deathwish?"

Seb shrugged. "Way it is."

A sudden terror. "Is this what he did to Sherlock?"

Seb snorted. "God, no. Holmes got to call all the shots. I've never seen the boss play pussycat before."

John narrowed his eyes. "You jealous?"

"Nah." A pause. "Maybe a touch. Not like the boss is exactly monogamous, but we usually hunt together." He sighed. "Four o'clock this morning I got a bloody tiger skin dumped on my head. Now I'm here. Hell of a day."

"I've got beer?" John offered.

"Why didn't you say so before, Watson? Dig it out."

A couple of hours later they were still on old regiment stories, having skipped more recent history by mutual consent. The doorbell startled John, and as he pulled himself to his feet he realised that he'd drunk rather more than might be advisable.

"Prob'ly Sherlock lost his key again." He made his way downstairs, blinked at Lestrade. "Hello?"

"Why won't either of you answer your bloody phones!" Lestrade came past him, up the stairs. "Is he in?"

"No. My phone got broken." John climbed up after him. "Just me and..." Mustn't say Seb, his brain advised him, almost too late. "Just me."

"Yeah." Lestrade looked around the living room. "Everything alright, John?"

Ah. Rather a lot of empty beer bottles, and no Seb. John fumbled for an excuse for that much drinking alone."Had a bit of a row with Sherlock. You know."

Lestrade was frowning at him. "About Moran?"

How did Lestrade know about him and Seb? "Er. Yeah." 

"Sorry, John." Lestrade sounded genuinely regretful. "But Sherlock was right, as usual. We've got a detailed description from the man who sold his pass on, and when we searched Moran's business premises we found tracings of a map of the zoo and the taxidermist's number. And now Moran's gone missing. He's our man, all right."

"No. It was Jim Moriarty." He felt the need to explain further. "It's always fucking Jim, Greg! Not me, though. We're simple, apparently."

Lestrade was looking at him oddly. "Look, John. Just tell Sherlock I need to talk to him, will you, when he gets home."

"You can talk to me now."

They both turned. Sherlock had come up quietly behind then. Now he walked over to the couch and began moving empty bottles onto the floor. "At least Lestrade can. Expecting coherence from John after this amount of alcohol is over-optimistic. I suggest that you sit down, John, before you fall over."

He knew damn well that John was no more than tipsy. John started to protest and Sherlock gestured firmly at the chair. "Sit down and be quiet!"

John did, reluctantly.

"Thank you. Now, this is about Moran, I presume, Inspector?"

Lestrade repeated the findings. "We've got a most wanted out on him, press conference first thing in the morning, then Crimewatch tomorrow evening. He's pretty recognisable and the murders are running top of all the news schedules. If he hasn't got out of the country already I'm sure we'll get him. Thanks to you."

Sherlock nodded. "Good work. Anything on that taxidermist yet?"

"Still missing. We're looking."

"Let me know if you find anything." He ushered the inspector out, came back up and rummaged in his desk.

"Sherlock!" 

"Not now." He came out with a large evidence bag. "Moran!"

Seb stepped out from Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock sighed.

"We've been watching him like a hawk, I see. Gun, unloaded. Phone." He glanced swiftly up and down Moran's rangy figure. "Three knives."

Moran divested himself of the items, placed them in the bag without comment. He tossed the ammunition for John's gun back to him.

"Sherlock! He didn't do it."

"Those particular murders, no. He did commit several others though, at least two of which are sitting on Scotland Yard's cold case files. Lestrade will never catch Jim so he might as well chase Sebastian."

"Except that he's in our flat! And he didn't do it!"

"Go to bed, John. It will make sense in the morning."

"Where's Seb sleeping?"

"Definitely not with you." Sherlock looked back at Moran standing quiet. "I'm afraid our hospitality isn't quite up to your standards. Naked men chained to the floor would startle our landlady. You sleep on the couch and you go nowhere, you touch nothing and you try to contact no-one." A quick cold smile. "Otherwise we find out how long a high security police cell will keep you safe from Moriarty. I strongly suspect he'll find it no trouble at all."

Moran nodded. "Understood."

"Go to bed, John. Your drinking partner will still be here in the morning, unless he's very stupid indeed."

 

Seb was still there in the morning, sitting on the couch in one of Sherlock's black shirts, open necked, watching the owner tap away on his laptop. 

"Good morning" John tried to both of them, got no replies, shrugged and went in search of coffee. Over breakfast he discovered that Seb continued monosyllabic in Sherlock's presence and his flatmate was barely more forthcoming.

"So what happens now? Seb can't leave."

"No," Sherlock agreed. "Interesting, that."

"What's Moriarty up to?"

Sherlock shrugged, elegant and dismissive. "Why not ask his henchman? Who were you planning to murder this week, Moran?"

"That's operational matters."

Moran looked relaxed, but John could see the tension at the pulse in his throat. Sherlock would see it, of course.

"John knows you kill innocent people, Moran. There's no point pretending."

A flicker towards John, and his attention was back on Sherlock. "There's no point asking, either, Mr Holmes."

"No. You don't know what Jim's up to at all, do you? Only that you've been kicked out here and John's now the only card in your hand." Sherlock's voice dropped, slowed. "I've be very careful about how you try to play that card, Moran. You think Moriarty's revenges are bleak; mine would be far, far worse."

Moran watched him for a couple of seconds, then nodded.

"Right here," John pointed out. "If you want to let me in on the conversation?"

"It's done." Sherlock closed the laptop, tucked it under his arm. "Don't leave the house, don't let anyone in. There's a police watch front and back. Try not to do anything foolish. I may be out late."

"Where are you going?"

"To see a man about a dog." And he went.

It was a long morning. John had been uncomfortably reminded that Seb was Moriarty's man; he kept a chilly distance. Seb tried a familiarity once or twice then dropped into the same perfunctory civility. 

About midday John received an anonymous picture text; a slightly pudgy hand resting on the inside of a long white thigh. At his shocked curse Seb came to look over his shoulder.

"What did you expect?"

"This is your fault. Shut up." Sherlock didn't answer his phone. John spent the afternoon pacing, distressed.

When Sherlock got home in late afternoon he had the same reaction. "What did you expect?"

"If you can meet up for this you can get him arrested, Sherlock!"

"No."

"We've got to talk about this. You can't do this. It's dangerous." 

"Stop fussing, John. Obviously I can." And he disappeared for a very long shower. 

Afterwards he was all business. "I'll watch the sniper. Go shopping, look normal. We're almost out of milk."

It was a long evening as well. John tried to watch military documentaries on the Discovery Channel, enlivened by Seb's occasional dry critique. Sherlock shut himself in his room for much of the evening, refusing food. John was both desperately worried about him and furious. 

When he came down early next day after a night almost devoid of sleep Sherlock had already left.

"You could have stopped him!" he shouted at Seb.

"Voice down. He knows what he's doing. No-one's come after you or me yet; think that's coincidence?"

John didn't speak to him all day. The midday picture was of an iron ring around a narrow ankle, a chain from it winding so tight up the calf that it dug deep into pale compressed flesh. He didn't show it to Seb; instead he spent an hour or so cleaning his gun.

Sherlock ignored everything that he had to say when the man got home, disappearing into the bathroom instead. John stood squarely in his way when he came out again.

"At least let me check you over for injuries, Sherlock. I'm a doctor."

"There's nothing to check."

"Then you won't mind me looking, will you? I'm insisting on this, or I'm tying you up myself tomorrow."

Reluctantly, Sherlock stripped down to his underwear. "Satisfied, Doctor?"

The loop was still round his ankle; John recognised it as the metal he'd seen when Sherlock had woken him for the Zoo. It wasn't chafing. Faint marks up his leg showed where the chain had pulled tight but there was no sign of scratches or bruising. John had to concede that Sherlock was unhurt.

"Doesn't mean he won't do something next time, Sherlock. He's insane. You know what he did to Seb."

"I'm not Moran. And I'll have some shepherd's pie since you're making it."

John waved a helpless hand. "You are using protection, aren't you?"

Sherlock laughed out loud at that. "John, please. I'm not your teenage daughter. "

"How long is this going to go on for? You going out, Seb being here, the police search... it's got to end soon."

"I calculate that two events will occur." Sherlock had dressed again. "One here, one there. I doubt if either is more then a few days away now."

He smiled at John, the first genuine warm smile he'd shown for days. "Tolerate all this for a little longer, John. We'll have our quiet lives back soon enough."

Moran had been watching from the living room doorway. He turned a stiff shoulder to John and went to the corner that he'd appropriated, curled up on the floor with a book. John sighed and went to the kitchen to start dinner.

That night John woke to a step on the stair.

"Seb?"

"Hush. There's an outside chance that he doesn't know I'm up here." Seb climbed onto the bed, curled up next to John, head close on the pillow. "You're a real wuss when it comes to him, aren't you?"

"Hey, I'm doing what I can!" He'd not figured any way to stop Sherlock that would work.

"Yeah, sure. I tell you, if it were my boyfriend heading off to fuck Jim Moriarty every day he'd get a bit more then a medical and a safe sex lecture."

"Sherlock's not my boyfriend."

"How do you know? Come on, John. You haven't tried him. Ever. So he's got to go and screw Moriarty every day, so send him off marked every fucking inch as yours, and rip every trace of the boss off his skin when he comes home again."

There was warmth pressed up against John's side now. "I tell you, it's embarrassing, watching you right now."

John shifted, uncomfortable. "Look. It's not like that, him and me."

"Why do you think the boss sends you those photos? Because you're his doctor? Because you go halves on the rent?" He shifted up even closer. "That's my good samaritan speech done. If he's not getting it from you, I might as well. That couch gets pretty chilly late at night."

"Go away." There wasn't a great deal of conviction in John's tone, however, and Moran merely dug his way under the covers instead. Sure hands rolled him onto his stomach, massaged his tight neck and shoulders for a very long time, until he was finally relaxed for the first time in days and half asleep. Then it was only Sebastian, and warm and human; he let the man part his legs and screw him slowly and gently, barely keeping him awake, let Seb curl up against him afterwards and sleep.

 

"Get out."

John started awake. Sherlock was by the bed, and angry.

"Get out!" Sebastian was dragged off the bed by an arm. 

"Stop it!" Sherlock really couldn't behave like this in his bedroom!

"Get downstairs." Sherlock hissed at Seb, who left without comment. 

"What do you think you're doing?" John snapped.

"Did you have sex with him? Don't bother answering, I can smell that much. He's using you, John. I didn't think that you would be so stupid as not to see that. There's something wrong about him when it comes to you. Don't let him anywhere near!"

John sat bolt upright. "Ok. One, smell comment, not acceptable. Ever. Two, he's trapped, Sherlock! You and Moriarty between you have stuck him here, with no idea of your plans, knowing you both think he's expendable and with no-one on his side, except possibly me. I'd bloody well cuddle up to my only ally in that situation too. Three, I like him. He might not be a good person but right now he's a much better friend than you are. He does at least recognise that I have feelings!"

"What 'feelings' would these be," Sherlock demanded. "Lust? I have noticed that, believe it or not. I'm just a little too busy right now keeping you and your good friend alive to engage in detailed discussions of your carnal desires."

"Carnal desires?" John looked round but there was nothing in reach to throw. "Fuck that, Sherlock! I'm scared! And yes, I'm jealous too, because yes OK there's a bit of that, but mostly I'm terrified that today when you take your clothes off for Jim Moriarty he's going to rape, torture and mutilate you and send me a bloody photo when he's done, because he's a fucking madman and you are not in control. I can barely breathe when you're with him and it doesn't get any better when you come back because you're going to go there again. And all the time I know I'm the hold that Moriarty has over you. How do you think that feels?"

"What does that have to do with Moran?" Sherlock was quieter.

"Seb doesn't matter, Sherlock! He's lost too, just a warm body in the terrible cold. We're pawns, him and I, and neither of us have anything else to hold onto right now. I don't know if he misses Jim but I miss you. Part of you's been gone since you first went to Moriarty, and I don't know if I'm ever going to get you back whole again."

Sherlock sat down on the bed. There was a long silence.

"I cannot" he finally said, "promise you that everything will be how it used to be, nor that everything will work out fine. However I do not think that Moran's position is as desperate as it currently appears, nor do I think that I am yet in as much physical danger as you imagine."

He looked directly at John. "You have some personal experience of perverse desires, and I intend no judgement by that term. It is not always possible to choose the nature of one's inclinations. If it were so then I might well consider inclining them towards a friend and partner, rather than, as you put it, a fucking madman. But," he shrugged, "I would not want to hold out any promises unlikely to be kept."

A quick smile. "I assure you that I don't hold you in any way responsible for our current situation, regardless of my somewhat hasty words a minute ago. The initial curiosity was mine, and everything has followed on after.

"Does that cover everything, John?"

John let go of a deep breath. "Not everything, but thank you. It's at least good to have you talk to me again. Do you really have to go today?"

"I really do, yes. Try not to fret. It's a game, with rules, and he's limited by them even if he wouldn't admit it. He'll send a rather more unnerving photo; I don't want you to actually worry overmuch but a few texts and frantic messages in response will keep him happy."

"I can certainly do that. Please come home safely. I hate this." 

"I know you do." A brief smile from Sherlock. "I don't. Not yet." He stood up. "I meant it about Moran. He holds secrets, still, and they may involve you. Trusting a known killer in such a desperate position is every bit as rash as you imagine I'm being."

 

"Did you make a pass at him, then?"

John shook his head. "Well, sort of. While shouting. He's not interested, but polite about it. And at least we got to talk about what's going on."

"So, what's going on?" Moran was sprawled across the couch eating crisps. 

"I don't actually know," John admitted. "It wasn't that sort of talk. But he seems happy enough. Reckons Moriarty and he are in a game with rules, so he's safe."

Moran snorted. "Idiot. Boss has never stuck to a set of rules in his life. Still, he's not dead yet, not that I'd care. Last time I was dragged out of a bed like that boy was fifteen and it was the bloody father."

"Sorry about that. He doesn't trust you at all."

Moran merely snorted at that, and opened another packet of crisps.

 

The wait for the photo was bad, despite Sherlock's reassurance. It didn't come through until nearly 1pm, and then it was hard to make out. Moran transfered it onto John's laptop and they stared at the enlarged image together. 

John made out the dip of the spinal cord disappearing, identified the photo as taken of the small of the back, entirely wet with blood, and the smear of JM drawn clean in it with a fingertip.

The blood could have come from anywhere Seb pointed out; there were no cuts shown. And it wasn't a great deal of blood, all told; thinly spread. John knew he was right, appreciated the reassurance but he had no difficulty being frantic at Sherlock's answerphone. Moriarty had cut Sherlock open. 

Ten to four his phone rang.

"Sherlock? God, are you all right?"

"Perfectly." Sherlock's voice was curt. "I want you to go out for 500ml sulphuric acid."

"Now?"

"Right now."

"What about Moran?"

"Now, John. I need it the instant that I get home, in an hour and a half. That chemist in Dale Street will have it." He hung up.

John turned to Seb. "Sherlock needs me to dash out for something. Hour, tops. Will you be all right?"

"If they find me I'm fucked whether you're here or not. Go on."

John picked up the gun from his room, unwilling to leave it with Seb, then took the stairs two and three at a time.

He had been on the bus for ten minutes when Sherlock rang again. "Get off, next stop. Cross the street; there's a taxi waiting." The line went dead again. 

Sherlock was in the cab, looking bright eyed and excited. "Excellent, John." He leaned forward to the driver "Baker Street."

"What are we doing? Hang on, never mind that, are you hurt?"

Sherlock flashed a bandaged hand at him. "You can check it later, Doctor, but it's only a small cut. We are leaving Moran enough rope to hang himself."

"What? How?"

"I've suspected for some time that your friend Seb has two masters. He's been reporting on Moriarty for someone else. What I haven't been able to find out is who he's spying for, although given his Middle Eastern links I have suspicions that it will be an Islamist group. Whoever it is, he's been out of touch with them for days and he has a great deal of information to pass on. He can't leave the flat, so they'll send someone to him." He directed the taxi to pull up.

"I think we should have timed things perfectly. Got your gun? Good." He flung some money at the cab driver, ran out and up the stairs to the flat. John followed close behind, hand in his jacket, on the gun.

They burst into the living room and the man already seated there turned at the interruption. Sherlock slammed to a halt and there was a second's silence, broken by Sherlock's slow drawl.

"Well. What a surprise. And to what do we owe the honour?"

Mycroft patted a file on the table. "A matter of some vital importance. I let myself in to wait, since there was no-one here. Perhaps John could make some tea while we discuss it?"


	5. Favourite Weapon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's getting more desperate about the price that Sherlock's paying for his safety, while some of Seb's secrets are revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When a final chapter hits 10,000 words it is time to admit that it's two chapters. Possibly even three. Here's the first of them. I hope the rest will follow shortly. Apologies for the overrun; too many screwed up relationships.

Sherlock didn't even glance in the direction of the file on the table. "No new cases. Far too busy," he told his brother.

"I'll take no more than ten minutes of your terribly valuable time, Sherlock. I'm sure you're not that busy. And a cup of tea, if John could be charming enough?" 

John kept an eye on them from the kitchen; Mycroft flicking through the papers in the file, leaning forward to explain, Sherlock's head tilted back, eyes half shut in seeming disinterest. When he came back in with a tray both men had temporarily stopped talking.

Sherlock broke the silence. "You've yet to ask me what I'm busy with, brother."

Mycroft folded his hands around his mug. "No tea cups, John? Did you check in the back cupboard... Oh well. Never mind. The zoo murders, I imagine, Sherlock. I do read the papers. Is your ex-army man guilty?"

"Didn't you ask him? Or hadn't you got that far when we interrupted?

Mycroft shook his head. "I don't know quite what you are imagining, Sherlock."

Sherlock glanced around the room. "There are a dozen signs that a third person has been staying here, someone who hasn't shown up on your external surveillance, yet you've not said a word. And you track our movements in and out of the flat; why on earth choose to visit on the one occasion when we are both out?"

He sighed. "John, quite astonishingly, was right all along despite a complete lack of relevant evidence. I set a trap for Moran's contact and you walked straight into it, Mycroft, just like any amateur. He's Secret Service."

He lifted his voice "Moran! Cover's blown. Come out and talk."

Moran curled around the doorframe. "I'm here."

John was staring at Seb as if seeing him for the first time. "You work for Mycroft?"

"I work for Jim Moriarty, and I don't forget it for an instant. But I also provide information for the British Government, on occasions."

Sherlock was smiling, satisfied. "At last. The missing piece. You can thank my brother's excessive sentiment for this whole mess, John," He put down his mug of tea. "And, not incidentally, your continued existence. I was sure Moran wasn't fond or stupid enough to risk his life covering for you to Moriarty, and I was right. He would have told Moriarty all about you from day one, if his instructions from Mycroft had allowed."

"Not sentiment." Mycroft insisted. "Doctor Watson is valuable. He supposedly prevents you from behaving quite as erratically as you might, although recently I am beginning to doubt that."

"Soon as John came on the scene I knew that one tiny coincidence had me fucked." Seb commented. "Me or him and Mr Holmes- my Mr Holmes- said it wasn't going to be him."

Sherlock waved a hand. "Moran thought you'd done for him, John. It made him reckless. You'd been carrying a bit of a torch for your hero for years. Both of you were rather disturbed by my interactions with Moriarty. The rest was inevitable. Obvious, in retrospect, as things usually are."

"If you're Service, they should take care of you. " John insisted. "You don't need to wait around for Moriarty to get to you."

Seb's voice was soft. "I kill people for Moriarty, John. I'm not an agent, not like you think of agents. Boss says shoot someone, I don't run back to Mr Holmes to ask what I should do, I shoot them, unless they're on the government list and it's a very small list. I've got no dispensation for murder, says I'm doing it for Queen and country, and I'm not going to run. I'm Moriarty's man. I'll stay here till he finally decides to have me put down."

"Or takes you back." Mycroft.

Moran whipped round on him. "He won't."

"He might. I understand that he's got a brand new tiger skin to play with." Mycroft's voice was mildly sarcastic. 

Something flickered in Seb's eyes, closed down. "What if he wants John dead?"

"He won't ask for that," Sherlock said. "It's covered. What's rather more relevant, Mycroft, is the question of whether allowing Jim Moriarty's favourite weapon to return to him is at all sensible."

"Yes." Mycroft said without hesitation. "You of all people know how hard it is to get to him, Sherlock. We need some one on our side there."

"On your side? You're deluding yourself, brother. If Moran's on your side why isn't Jim dead?"

"Because I won't kill him." Seb. "I won't cripple him. I won't hand him over. I won't sabotage his operations. I'll give the government some information and I'll try to keep the names on their precious list alive and that's as far as it goes. It's enough for your brother. I don't give a damn what you think."

"Let him go back." Mycroft was definite. "He's undoubtedly flawed but still better than nothing."

"He'll kill people." Sherlock sounded angry. "And worse. He'll be Jim's hands and his knife and his gun and his partner and his victim all in one until the man kills him deliberately or by accident and dumps his body on the side of the road. He's a gift to Jim Moriarty and the man will use it."

"If the boss wants me back then nothing short of killing me is going to stop that. That what you're planning, Holmes?"

"I don't murder people."

"In that case you get no say in the matter." Seb's smile wasn't at all friendly.

Sherlock stared at him, whirled on Mycroft. "He's your problem. Do something about him."

"A little patience, Sherlock. The matter will get resolved." Mycroft put down his empty teacup, glanced at his watch. "For now we must all await developments. I have stayed for about as long as you and I can normally bear to converse so I will be leaving. No need to raise Moriarty's suspicions about this visit."

The flat was quiet after Mycroft left. Seb announced his intention of cooking and took over the kitchen. John persuaded Sherlock to let him look at the knife wound, a shallow cut to the palm.

"It's got to stop, Sherlock." John washed it in antiseptic liquid, rebandaged it, all he could do. "This is the start of something worse, you know that. You've got to find some other way to deal with him." It was as much as he could do to keep his voice level and reasonable. Screaming wouldn't help.

"Not yet. I'm still making progress. It's still safe."

"Seb says there's no such thing. That he always breaks the rules."

"Don't quote that man at me." He pulled his hand back sharply.

"I thought finding out about Mycroft would help. He's sort of on our side."

"You think a shred of conscience is better than none at all? I'd rather deal with a beast."

"He risks his life to give Mycroft information!"

"Of course he does. It won't save his soul in the end." 

John blinked at Sherlock. "Soul? I didn't expect you to start getting theological." He paused. "I didn't expect you to care so much at all, I suppose. It's not the sort of thing you usually concern yourself with. Facts, deductions, yes. Not the state of someone's conscience." 

"Moran's conscience seems to fade in and out in a remarkable and potentially significant manner." Sherlock said sharply. "Don't trust him for a moment." He sniffed at the warm scent of chilli from the kitchen. "I'm going out to talk to Lestrade."

 

The chilli was excellent. John and Seb found an action film to watch on the TV and they pulled it to shreds between them. No beer, though, and John kept his distance. Seb didn't seem particularly put out. When Sherlock came back in they were safely separated by the living room table, watching the news. 

The police had obviously had trouble finding an up to date photo of Moran; the one they were using was several years old. John silently thought it looked rather dashing. Seb had laughed out loud on seeing it for the first time. Sherlock looked at the TV without comment and disappeared into his bedroom. John sighed, got up and knocked on the door.

"Sherlock? Can I come in to talk to you?"

"Not and watch our house guest, no."

John glanced round at the silent Moran. "I don't think he's going to run anywhere in the next five minutes." 

"I'm not convinced that you think at all." There was the noise of his violin tuning, and John got no more from him but scraping and screeching until the early hours. Somehow he managed to leave the house next morning without John catching him going, leaving John to pace and fret all over again. 

 

Around ten am there was a familiar knock. "Boys?" Seb had already ducked out of sight. 

"Good morning Mrs Hudson." John managed a smile.

"Is Sherlock out again without you?" His landlady tutted. "You really shouldn't let him go off alone so much. John. Anything could happen."

"It's not" John said through gritted teeth, "my idea. Can I help you?"

"There's a parcel, dear, come through the letter box. I brought it up for you,"

Obviously. "Thank you very much." He took it from her, smiled and managed to steer her away again.

The parcel was something small and solid, addressed to himself. Seb reappeared at his shoulder.

"Think it's safe?"

Seb turned it over in his hands, sniffed at it. "Probably. I suggest we take appropriate precautions anyway."

"Which are?"

"You open it. I'll stand over there."

"Very funny." John noted that Seb did in fact move into the kitchen, watching. 

The contents were in no way explosive, merely a well wrapped mobile phone. John examined it, puzzled. Seb had come out to take a look.

"Any ideas?"

John nearly dropped it as it started to vibrate with a raucous half familiar pop song.

"That will be for me, then." Seb plucked it out of his hands, answered it. "Yes."

John stood and watched him listen to what sounded like complex instructions. Probably exactly the sort of thing that Sherlock thought he ought to be stopping Moran from doing, but he made no attempt to wrestle the phone back. He wasn't Seb's captor.

Moran finally closed the phone and dropped it into a back pocket. 

"Well?"

Seb looked at him, frowning. "I'm not going to make you come along. And that is the last instruction that I'm prepared to disobey. Understand that, John? The very last one."

John nodded. "But Sherlock's there already, isn't he? Him, you, even Mycroft; everyone's paying too much to protect me from Moriarty right now. It's time I stood up for myself. Where do we go?"

Seb let out a long breath. "There will be a disturbance in around three minutes, and a taxi at the front door."

The disturbance was an explosion big enough to smother the street in smoke and dust. John and Seb spent ten minutes flat on the floor of a taxi, another ten in the back of a van, sitting side by side without speaking or making eye contact. John had that calm that sometimes came before a situation that might mean combat; too late, or too early, to be scared. Something was going to happen; he held onto that. He could act, not just watch Sherlock walk away from him into danger every day.

They ended up in a side street, ushered quickly through a steel door into soundproofed corridors. Downstairs, well below street level, and the corridors opened up into what could easily have been a luxury hotel suite, except for the lack of windows. 

Moran had taken the lead, apparently familiar with the place. John stepped on the thick plush carpet of what seemed to be an anteroom, trying to get the feel of the place. How would he run, if he had to? With great difficulty. There were guards in the narrow way in, even if none visible in here. 

"And here you both are. Lovely."

Jim Moriarty, wrapped in a bright silk kimono. "Sherlock wasn't sure you'd come. Either of you. I had a little more faith. Going to be good, now, Sebastian?"

"Yes boss." 

"Wonderful to hear it. Although I might just kill you anyway. Shall we see how it goes?"  
John kept his tone calm. "Where's Sherlock?"

"In here." The familiar voice from behind Moriarty, who turned and waved John past into the sitting room.

Sherlock was lounging in his customary pose on a wide couch. Like Moriarty he was wrapped in silk. He looked entirely at home, and John snorted. 

"Don't bother getting up, will you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Observation, John." He shook an ankle and it rattled.

"Shit!" John surged forward towards the chain and Moran grabbed him from behind, pinioning his arms. Moriarty slunk into the room, smiling.

"It's not what you think." Beat. "Well, maybe a bit. Because chains are always fun. But mainly he just kept wandering off. Now I can be sure he'll be there when I want him." 

Seb let John loose and he took a breath, turned to Moriarty. "I really don't know why no-one else has killed you yet, but I'm quite prepared to put that right."

Jim huffed. "Do we really have to go through the whole ground rules thing? Playing nicely, not interrupting, no death threats?"

John just looked at him.

"Very well, then. I see we do. Sherlock?"

Sherlock contemplated the ceiling, managed to sound genuinely bored. "Don't be rude. Don't make threats. Don't tell Jim he's insane unless you intend it as a compliment. Don't hit anyone. Don't try to run away. Don't argue- can we argue? I forget." 

"You can argue." Jim said graciously. "Provided it's entertaining."

"Thank you. I believe that's all."

"Or what?" John asked, belligerently.

Sherlock brought his head round to stare at John incredulously. "How is that possibly going to be an intelligent question at this juncture, John? Do you really think the man could be bluffing? Do they actually teach you how *not* to do this stuff in the army, or are you still working on school playground level here?"

"I'm just a bit pissed off here, OK, Sherlock? You're not helping."

"Swearing." Moriarty commented. "I don't think I've ever had to tell you not to swear, sweetheart. You're always so beautifully spoken. No swearing."

With a great effort John kept silent. 

Moriarty drifted over to sit next to Sherlock. "What do you think will win? Instinct or what passes for intelligence? He's a reasoning human being, he knows the score and yet we just know he's going to rattle the bars anyway. Fascinating."

John was uncomfortably sure that he was right. With the right trigger... he looked around the room. "What exactly am I meant to be doing here?"

"Oh, several things. Giving bad boy Sebastian here the chance to try to worm his way back into my affections. Providing Sherlock with a little extra motivation to play nicely. But mainly being very unhappy, I would think. I don't like you, John. Despite my best efforts to be polite I expect it's going to show."

There was Sherlock, chained but with Moriarty within his reach. There was Seb- not, John told himself, a reliable ally. There was John himself, loose. Even with Seb dubious, they could surely take Moriarty out.

"Don't even think about it." Seb's voice was dark behind him. Sherlock gave a slight head shake. Apparently not, then.

He glanced at his watch, instead. "Are we on any sort of timetable here? I've got braising steak for dinner and I was hoping to get back to make a start."

"Be quiet now." Moriarty was fondling Sherlock, a hand sliding up his bare ankle, further up under the silk. Sherlock's gaze had transferred itself up to the ceiling again. John shifted between feet, glared. He was going to break the man's neck, whether it got him out of here or not. It was just a matter of picking his moment.

Moriarty pulled the garment off Sherlock's shoulders and he shifted, compliant, to let it fall, still looking upwards. John did a quick, visual check for injuries, finding none, then looked aside. In the quiet of the underground room he could hear the rustle of Jim's hands sliding across bare flesh.

A small intake of breath and he looked back to see Jim's teeth hard at the side of Sherlock's throat, the captive flinching. "Wake up, pet!" And, to John, "He's normally a lot livelier. I think you're putting him off. Take the doctor into the bedroom, Seb, and warm him up a little for me." 

That was the trigger. John lunged for Moriarty but Seb was on him before he could make contact, knocking him down and smashing his head against the leg of the couch, then landing another blow into his stomach. He kicked and fought but he was already dazed and bruised, and Seb dragged him into the next room, up next to the bed, and clipped an open and waiting cuff around his wrist.

He struggled to his knees, as far as the handcuff to the bottom of the bedstead would let him go, cursing. Seb was wrapping a length of bicycle chain around his fist, looked relaxed and alert.

"Fuck, Seb. You saw what he was doing!"

Seb shrugged. "So?"

"You're all right with that, are you?"

Seb's mouth twisted upwards. "How many days has he walked back in here? Face it, John. He likes it." He paused. "And if he was screaming rape and pissing himself I still wouldn't care."

"Bastard." John glared at him.

Moran shook his head. "You ain't seen nothing yet. Have you seen what you're kneeling on?"

John looked down, wrinkled his nose at the dead skin, the tiger's head. "God that's vile."

"It's beautiful. He killed a tiger for me, John."

"He set you up for murder!"

"Doesn't matter. He did it for me. Not bloody Sherlock Holmes." Moran let the chain swing a little. "Best I can do for you, John, is break you quick. Longer you fight, worse it gets. And you're going to try and fight, aren't you?"

The chain was in constant motion now, back and forth. Any minute it was going to...

Lash out, curling around John's right shoulder, digging deep and pulling him off balance. Back and then forward again, left thigh and he stumbled, around his leg again and he was down, one fierce blow across his back and he crumpled to the floor, arms wrapped in desperate protection around his head, throbbing from every impact. It had been so fast...

"I could flay every inch of skin off your back and you wouldn't even be able to get back onto your knees." The chain swung again, and again, ripping into his skin, pulling a cry from each blow.

"Sebastian!"

Everything stopped.

"Warm him up a little, I said, not kill him. What do you think you're doing?"

John didn't uncurl, not yet. His heart was racing and everything hurt like hell.

"Put the boot in and this one'd barely notice. I'm just making an impression. Are you done in there?" Seb sounded matter of fact.

"No we're not! Our little heart to heart, Sebastian, was interrupted, at a rather critical juncture, by the racket you two are making."

"Sorry. I'll stop."

"Yes, you will. Talk about over compensating..." Moriarty disappeared again, muttering.

John pulled himself up to sit against the bed, tentatively exploring his injuries with his free hand. Lots of blood where skin had been ripped off, lots of bruises, probably nothing else. Damn, it hurt.

Seb was standing at ease, running the bicycle chain through his fingers and watching John. When did he pick that up, anyway? John glanced around. Soundproofed underground rooms. Seb probably had a dozen other weapons to hand, here. He shuddered.

"Not even following orders, were you? Just showing off."

Seb shrugged. "No point fucking around, is there? Might as well cut to the chase. You're only here to get hurt." He raised an eyebrow at the shake of John's head. "So why else do you think you're here?"

To confront Moriarty. To stop Sherlock taking the hit for him, day after day. To help Seb out, and God didn't that seem funny, now. Not to get casually beaten up in a side room by the same man who'd come crawling into his goddamn bed two nights before while Moriarty did what he pleased to Sherlock just as if John had never come.

Seb knew all that. Seb watched John with sharp blue eyes that said "naive" and "stupid" and most of all, "victim". 

That last made John make an effort to raise his chin, challenge Moran. "You getting off on this?"

A quick glance across to the other room. "Not till I'll told to. How about you?"

"Let me loose and I'll show you." He tugged helplessly at the handcuff around his wrist. Blood was soaked into his ripped shirt. 

"No."

There were noises from the sitting room now; gasps, small cries. Not enough to tell John anything except that something was happening. Seb stepped backwards so that he could glance through the door. "Christ!"

"What's happening?" What was Jim doing to Sherlock? He yanked again at the cuff. "Seb!"

"If I tried that the boss would crucify me."

"Tried what?"

He called over "Sorry", shut the door. "They want their privacy, apparently."

John slumped back, hissing with pain. Why had he blithely walked into this place? What did he have left?

"I could tell him about Mycroft," he said, quietly.

"What would that get you? Aside from a Service agent dead, and almost certainly Mycroft Holmes to follow? You won't do that, John. You're the one solitary good man in this outfit." 

"I'd do it to save Sherlock."

Moran snorted. "From what, though? Shagging his brains out? Looks to me like he's having the time of his life through there. It wouldn't save him, anyway. It wouldn't save either of you."

He went to the bedside cabinet, pulled out a set of black leather cuffs. "I'm going to cuff your hands behind your back. You're not in a position to stop me. You might want to start making smart decisions about things like this."

That was possibly good advice. Lashing out at Moran wildly from this position wouldn't hurt him, or Moriarty. John turned to the bedstead, cupped his hands together behind him, let the cuffs lock around his wrists, was released from the bedstead.

"Smart boy."

"Fuck you," he said, tiredly. "Now what?"

"Wait."

Silence again, until Moriarty's voice. "Boys!"

Seb ushered John into the living room. Sherlock was propped against the back of the couch, eyes closed. Jim had his head in the other man's lap. Both were naked again and flaccid. There was a scent of sex in the air, sweat and semen and something sweet.

"And now I'm in the mood for a different vice." Moriarty purred. "Make him scream for me, Seb."

Sherlock's eyes came open. "No."

"Quiet, sweetheart. Didn't ask you." His hand pushed up, caressed a nipple. "I'm waiting, Sebastian."

A short knife had appeared in Seb's hand while John's attention had been on the couch. He lunged forward and John tried to dodge away, felt a fiery pain across his shoulder, then another. He stumbled back against the wall, panting, his hands yanking helplessly at the cuffs.

"Not hearing any screams yet." 

Seb came forward again, this time to put a bruising hand around his neck. He jerked away as the knife sank deep into his left shoulder, twisted and he yelled in agony.

"Stop this!" Sherlock was shouting at Moriarty. "Leave him alone! You've had everything you wanted from me."

"But now I want this as well." 

The knife was still twisting, the pain unendurable, and he kept on screaming. Seb's eyes were close and bright, bright blue.

"Let him go, now." Moriarty.

John fell over. 

"He's bleeding to death." Sherlock's voice was oddly hollow.

"Don't fuss. Keep him alive, Seb."

Seb leaned over him, applying agonising pressure to the wound. "Hold on." His voice was barely audible. And louder. "He's going to need a hospital fast if you want to be sure."

"Moriarty." Sherlock, agonised.

"Two more things, Sherlock. Then you can take him wherever you like."

"What do you want?"

"First I want you to tell me about your brother."

Sherlock was talking fast, urgently, but John had no chance of following what was said. The roar in his ears was getting louder, the pain getting further away, along with the rest of the world. He could see Seb's lips moving, talking to him, but everything was getting dark and he lost that, lost everything, was gone.

 

He heard the voices for a while before he started to understand the words. Angry voices. When he did the meanings came all in a rush. 

"I am genuinely sorry that your discovery of your fallibility had to come at the expense of Dr Watson. But I am not sacrificing a much needed piece to your desire to redeem yourself. Jim Moriarty is the issue here, not Sebastian Moran. Moran is a Crown agent and you will not touch him."

"I wasn't asking for your permission, Mycroft. If you won't help I'll go after him myself."

"Why this obsession with a mere tool, Sherlock? Can you really be so willfully blind? It was Moriarty that you mishandled and Moriarty who had John hurt as a direct consequence."

"You weren't there. It was your agent who decided where the knife would go, who chose to cripple him. I want him."

"You are still trying to avoid full responsibility. Has it occurred to you, Sherlock, that Moran is doubtless skilled at the art of long drawn out torture?" A rustle. "And now we have woken the patient, and I must leave him to you for tonight. Leave Moran alone, Sherlock. There are bigger issues here for all of us."

John struggled to open his eyes. Sherlock was leaning over him, looking tired and drawn.

"About time that you woke up. How are you feeling?"


	6. A Lot on your Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Consequences, for everyone

_John struggled to open his eyes. Sherlock was leaning over him, looking tired and drawn._

_"About time that you woke up. How are you feeling?"_

"Flattened."

"Can you feel your arm?"

"Can't feel anything." Except the dull ache in his shoulder. Not even the familiar feel of opiate painkillers could wipe that out completely. "How bad is it?"

"A major arterial repair, some damage to the shoulder muscles, possibly permanent, maybe including loss of function for the arm. We won't know about that until tests are run."

That was straight, and bleak. John didn't want to have to come to terms with yet another disability. It wasn't fair. Fuck them all. He closed his eyes, wishing the world away, and Sherlock with it.

"John."

No. He wasn't prepared to talk about any of it yet. "Could you find the doctor?"

"Very well." The footsteps across the room sounded a little too unsteady for Sherlock.

The doctor confirmed what Sherlock had said, with additional warnings that John didn't need about the fragility of the artery repair. "We'll do the nerve tests when we can, but right now you need to keep that shoulder absolutely still. No experimenting." There was morphine on a self-administered drip. When the pain from his raw back and throbbing shoulder became too much he dialled it up and fell back to sleep.

When John woke again Sherlock was dozing in the chair by the bed. Tilting his head on one side was uncomfortable so John stared at the ceiling.

Everyone's fault. Mycroft, for putting Seb in this position. Sherlock, for playing games that he couldn't control. Moriarty, obviously. Sebastian, who'd stabbed him. And his own fault, for liking Seb, for trusting Sherlock, for thinking everyone better than they were.

"Are you hurt?" He spoke loud enough to wake the man in the chair, if he'd been asleep.

"Me?" Sherlock sounded startled. "Do I look injured?"

"What did you tell them about Mycroft?"

"Everything I could think of. Don't worry about him. Move of house, changes to operations, a few embarrassing confessions to government ministers. No permanent harm done."

No, only John ended up with permanent harm. Crippled. Again.

"What happened to Seb?"

"Last seen snuggling up to Moriarty with a great deal of your blood all over his hands. I couldn't tell Jim about him and Mycroft while his hand was compressing your artery. I intend to, though. With any luck Jim will slaughter him with extreme prejudice."

"And then the rest of us." The thought of Moriarty coming for him now made his chest constrict in terror. "Please, Sherlock. Don't do anything to provoke him until I can run."

Sherlock's voice softened. "This place is guarded. You're safe here."

"No, I'm not." He wasn't taking anyone's word for that again. "Please, Sherlock. Leave it for now."

Sherlock reluctantly promised, and John fell back to sleep.

 

The next few days dragged by slowly. Sherlock was usually there, but after the first few attempts he gave up trying to talk to John about what had happened. Mycroft came by but John refused to see him. His focus was entirely on his injuries- the stab wound, the lacerations from the chain- and his slow recuperation.

He'd lost most movement to the arm, most sensation. It was doubtful that he'd regain much muscle control even after everything had healed as much as it was going to, although there was some possibility of new electrical implants. He was allowed a computer screen, and read up on the subject voraciously, talked to the neurophysiologists, and to Sherlock, who read everything that he did. Not yet, they all advised. Let the damage heal a little more first. 

John didn't ask about events outside the quiet private hospital. If there was anything he absolutely had to know then Sherlock would tell him. Other than that he'd learned all he needed to, which was that he was the only one who had ended up hurt.

After ten days they told him that he could think about going home, if he wanted. He wasn't sure than he did. Sherlock walked in as he was explaining to the doctor that there was no-one there who could look after him.

"Nonsense. I'll be there all the time."

"You have your work, Sherlock and I can hardly expect you to be my nurse."

Sherlock addressed the doctor, ignoring him. "John will be extremely well cared for at home. The hospital environment isn't at all good for him; he is displaying marked symptoms of depression and withdrawal here. I'll need to make arrangements for medications and physical therapy but subject to that he can come home now."

"Sherlock!"

The doctor spoke to him gently. "Your partner does have some valid points, John. Physical and mental recuperation often both speed up when you get home and start to pick up your old activities, as long as you don't overdo it. I'll leave you two to discuss it and I'll talk to you afterwards."

As the door closed John was hissing at Sherlock, "How dare you claim to know what's best for me? Mind your own fucking business!" 

"Because I'm right. Why don't you want to come home, John?"

"I don't want to discuss it."

"Of course not. Shall we add it to the long list of things you don't want to discuss? This is a hospital, not an asylum. You can't just stay here waiting to wake up one day not frightened any more."

John pushed himself up the bed with his one good arm. "I'm not frightened, Sherlock. I've just had enough."

Sherlock's hands fluttered, an unaccustomed uncertainty. "There were mistakes. Serious ones. We need to talk about that."

John shook his head. "I thought it was about mistakes, too, at first. Everyone made them and only I had to pay. But nights are long, here. I've had no choice but to lie awake and think. Look."

There was a notepad and pencil by his bed; he balanced it awkwardly on his knees, scrawled four sets of initials clockwise in a square, filled in arrows both ways between Sherlock and Jim, Jim and Seb, Seb and himself. "Look."

Three sides of a square. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "This is?"

"Our various indiscretions. Unless you and Seb?"

"No. Your point is?"

"Take it." He thrust the pencil at Sherlock, who plucked it reluctantly from his fingers. 

"Show me where we are now. Who's still hung up on who."

"Whom," Sherlock corrected. "And I'm not a mind reader."

"No. You're the deductive mastermind. Take your best shot." 

Sherlock's eyes slitted at the quotation. "If I must."

He took the pad, drew a new square of initials, added double arrows, fast and confident, between Moriarty and Moran. Paused, thinking, then added a dotted line from Moriarty to himself. "I don't yet know if he's done with this."

He dropped the pencil on the pad, both on the bed beside John.

"That's your best guess?"

"Yes."

John looked down at the lines; Moriarty to Seb, Seb to Moriarty, Moriarty to Sherlock, and one set of initials in the corner, on its own. 

"You missed one. I thought you would." He flipped the pad over. "I'm not coming back to the flat at all. I'm moving out."

Sherlock was still. Then, "Where will you go?"

"Your brother will find me somewhere. He owes me. It's not charity."

"And what will you do?"

John half smiled. "Write, I think. I know you don't think much of my blog but I'd like that. Writing. Maybe an autobiography, if Mycroft doesn't censor it all."

"I don't want you to go." There was disbelief in Sherlock's voice.

"I don't want to be disabled. We're both going to have to live with our losses. I'd like you to leave now." He rang the bell.

Sherlock scooped up the pad, ripped off the diagrams and put them into his inside pocket. "I'll come back tomorrow." He was gone before John could ask him not to.

Mycroft turned up within an hour of John's text. He listened to the request, nodded. "Of course. You'll need security as well. Unfortunate but in the circumstances absolutely necessary."

He paused, as if the next part needed cautious handling. "A possible solution does occur to me. There is a set of rooms in the place where I am currently staying, although I am away a great deal. My staff would be available for personal care, and the security is of the highest possible order. We can look out for somewhere more permanent and independent as your medical and security needs reduce."

John wasn't in a position to quibble. It was not Baker Street, and as safe as he would get. Not, he told himself, Mycroft as a flatmate. Merely somewhere that they were both temporarily staying, thanks to Sherlock's cocked-up dealings with Jim Moriarty.

Everything was sorted out with Mycroft's usual efficiency. John was whisked away later that day in a private ambulance and installed on the first floor of a large and isolated farmhouse somewhere near Dorking with two nurses and the services of the establishment's personal doctor and of an assortment of secretaries, cooks, cleaners and heavily armed security guards. It wasn't remotely like coming home but it wasn't the hospital, so he guessed it was progress. Mycroft assured him that no-one could find either of them here.

Sherlock arrived at half past ten next morning. John was breakfasting one handedly at his first floor window, watching nothing at all happening under the grey skies in the farmyard and across the fields and wondering how long it would take him to get used to any of this, when he saw the familiar figure striding up the lane, coat billowing. 

One might presume that Mycroft's guards were under instruction not to shoot his brother. John sighed. He'd better make sure. Nurse Sanjit was dispatched downstairs to tell the house manager that Sherlock was John's guest, albeit unwanted and uninvited, and had better be allowed in.

A few minutes later the man himself appeared in the doorway.

"I hope you weren't followed." John muttered.

"Of course not. What on earth do you think you're doing out here?"

"It's somewhere to stay, for the moment. Mycroft's been very helpful."

"Naturally." Sherlock started prowling around the room, examining things. "He's grooming you."

"And what on earth do you mean by that?" 

"He thinks you'd make a good agent, of course." He turned over a book, found it a novel, dropped it in disinterest. "If he can persuade you to switch allegiances, which seems to be well underway."

"Ridiculous. I can't even make my own breakfast, Sherlock. What good would I be to him? To anyone?"

"You're a great deal of use to me."

And here it came. "No. I'm not coming back."

"Because of this?" The notepaper came out. Sherlock had scrawled indecipherable loops and annotations over it.

"Because of that. Because I'll be a liability to you like this, and I can't sit back and watch you run into danger on your own." Because of Moriarty. No need to admit to that particular terror. Sherlock must know.

"You'll adapt; you're good at that. Most of your competences aren't dependent on having two working hands. If I didn't want you with me, why would I be here to wrest you out of my brother's greedy little clutches?"

John had wondered that. "Guilt?"

Sherlock snorted. "If I merely felt guilty over what had happened, I'd leave you here with Mycroft and a sigh of relief. I can't provide for you as well he can. I want you back because I want you back. Because of this."

He smoothed out the paper, took a black marker pen from his coat pocket. "This."

A single thick black line, between himself and John. "Satisfied?"

"What does it mean?" John ran a finger along it, smudged the ink. Not the same as the others, that much was clear.

"You're the one who veered into geometry. It's a line. Does it need defining?"

"I don't know." Fleetingly it felt warm to see it there, whatever it meant. Then the sensation was gone. "I still don't want to come home."

"And yet you still call it home, John." Sherlock was starting to look smug. "You can stay here with Mycroft for the moment. Just don't agree to anything long term. Your room in Baker Street is waiting."

He turned to the door. "I'll come by again in a couple of days. Enjoy the peace and quiet. You'll be bored senseless within a week."

John was bored within two days. He'd tried writing for his blog, but the untold, untellable story of the zoo murders was in his way. The police were still looking for Seb; there had been no developments and it had dropped out of the news. He found that he was looking forward to Sherlock's visit, and that disturbed him. Sherlock couldn't be trusted. Sherlock wasn't safe for him now, possibly forever. 

Sherlock was in a good mood. They had coffee in John's sitting room and discussed Mycroft's discomfort at being condemned to rustic life. The farm had rats, and cats to keep them down. Cats that shed hair that got on clothes. Mycroft was not happy, so naturally Sherlock was delighted. John rather liked what little he'd seen of the cats; they stayed mainly in the outbuildings and he was still confined to his rooms. The weather hadn't been suitable for invalids to be taken outside, he said, keeping the bitterness out of his tone, not wanting to sour the mood. Sherlock heard it anyway, of course.

"Only two weeks ago you were minutes from bleeding to death, John. Give it time. You'll be running after suspects again soon enough."

"And what am I going to do when I catch up with them, with only one arm?"

"Punch them." Sherlock tilted his head to one side, considering. "You'll get there, John. This isn't the end of anything, except possibly your career as a concert violinist. You're alive. That's a starting point."

He paused, waiting. John said nothing. He wasn't buying into this positive thinking crap.

"Come home."

John looked at Sherlock and almost wanted to say yes. Not quite enough. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I can't."

"You don't trust me."

"No." It was an awful admission, but the truth. Sherlock had dragged them both into a situation that he thought he could control, and couldn't.

"You should never have trusted me in the first place, John. Not without limits. I am human. I make mistakes."

That wasn't fair."I didn't expect your mistakes to be quite so huge. To cost me quite so much."'

Sherlock shook his head. "Nor did I. All we can do is learn from them."

"Well I can't. Not just like that." 

"Your choices are to learn from them or run away from them. Come home, John!"

"No." His good hand ran over the dead wrist in its sling. "No."

Sherlock stood up, wrapped his coat around his shoulders. "Text me when you're next bored. I'll come over again."

"And if I don't?"

"I'll come when I have something to say. We have a line, John. You can't wriggle off the hook that easily."

 

Three nights later Mycroft was home early, for once, and invited John to join him for a drink after dinner. "A single glass of something is unlikely to disagree with your medications, I understand. Though I defer of course to your medical expertise."

John thought alcohol sounded like an excellent idea. He'd wondered about asking the staff to get some beer in for him, hadn't got round to saying anything. 

"Port or brandy, or something a little less traditional? The house came with a very well stocked cellar."

"Beer, if you have it. A bitter, maybe?"

"As it happens, I anticipated that as your choice." He led the way into the sitting took, when a selection of bottled beers rested on a tray. John picked one up, put it down again helplessly.

"The bottle-opener next to it is operable with one hand." Mycroft was pouring himself a brandy. John picked up the object, turned it round, assessing, then slid it over the top of the bottle and pried upwards with his thumb. The top came off without trouble. 

"i imagine that you are going to find life full of frustrations, for a while. I have taken the liberty of hunting out a few devices that might help with a few of the minor ones."

"Thank you." The small thoughtfulness almost had John in tears. He took a deep swig from the bottle, savouring the taste. Mycroft had brushed a few stray cat hairs from an a armchair before settling down in front of the fire. He looked comfortable, at home.

"Unfortunately this house will not stay secure indefinitely. The countryside doesn't suit you, John."

"Not really. I miss the city."

"Then I can make suitable arrangements."

"I'm still paying rent on Baker Street. I can't afford any more."

"You were injured in the course of my operations, Dr Watson. Financial matters will be taken care of." Mycroft's gaze was sharp. "If, once you are recovered, you feel an obligation to make some recompense, an obligation that I assure you that you are not under, then there are likely to be some tasks that you could usefully undertake for your country."

John laughed without humour. "You really are recruiting me? I'm useless, Mycroft. I'm broken. Cut your losses now and throw me out."

"Far from useless. In fact there is something of great utility that you could do for me now, if you feel able."

"What's that?" John asked, warily.

"I need to make certain decisions regarding Sebastian Moran. A intelligent insight into his relationship with Jim Moriarty would be priceless to me at this point. If you were able to produce one of your delightfully clear narratives covering recent events then that would assist me greatly. I can assure you that no-one else will ever see it."

He didn't want to tell that story, not at all. "This isn't a half-assed attempt at therapy, is it?

Mycroft waved a hand dismissively. "I leave that sort of thing to the professionals. My interests are purely practical. My brother has not been forthcoming and I haven't been able to obtain Moran's account yet, which will be in any case potentially unreliable. Consider it a debriefing."

John wanted to refuse, but he owed Mycroft by now, and the man needed to know what Moran had done. "I suppose I can try."

"I will be grateful." The conversation moved on to other, safer topics.

The next morning John sat down at the laptop that he'd been provided with. He spent a few minutes flicking through the leaflets Mycroft had left with it on one handed keyboards. One or two looked interesting, but for the moment he'd be pecking away at the standard keys. Not much change there.

Where to start? Being woken for the zoo? Sherlock's earlier disappearance? John took a deep breath. Do it properly. 

"In the spring of 2004", he typed, "I first met an officer called Sebastian Moran."

Three hours later Sanjit disturbed him to ask about lunch, just as he had reached his visit to Seb's office. He paused, stretching cramped fingers, reluctant to stop. "Bring some up here, please. I need to keep working."

The conversation with Seb had resonances, now that he knew of the man's two masters. He had been naive, and Seb had tried to warn him, as far as a man with that many secrets could. 

Onto Sherlock's realisation that he was in danger, and the tea at the Dorchester. The sickening discovery of Sherlock's involvement with Moriarty, his own misguided attempts to protect Seb, and Sherlock's offer to ransom them both. He was the one who'd mishandled everything that evening from hitting Moriarty to screwing Sebastian. He said so in his report.

Lunch on a tray, sandwiches and fruit. He ate quickly, for once without thinking about his injuries, looking out across the fields and contemplating what he had written.

The next part was appallingly difficult. He didn't want to write about Sherlock leaving the house each day, the photos, his own helplessness and frustration, but Moran had been there and Mycroft needed to know what had been happening, the extent of the man's culpability. John wrote a few terse, explicit lines about the night Seb had spent with him and Sherlock's reaction, repeated his flatmate's warnings to him about Sebastian word for word. The meeting with Mycroft, by contrast, was easy to describe. He skipped his physical therapy sessions to get that down. One day wouldn't matter. This did.

The phone arriving for Moran (he'd placed the ringtone after hearing it on the radio. Bad Romance). One final warning from Seb that he'd ignored. The journey. The house with Moriarty and Sherlock, and there he stopped. It was late by now; he'd had dinner on a tray as well, hoping to get the whole task done in one day. But after he'd spent another couple of hours writing half a sentence, staring at the screen then deleting it again repeatedly he knew that he wasn't going to write the next bit at all. He saved the document to a memory stick and went to bed.

John didn't sleep well that night. Moriarty's voice haunted his dreams, waking him in cold sweat more than once. The farm at night was too quiet, the few noises unfamiliar. He was up early enough to hand the memory stick over before Mycroft left the house. After that he felt better, was halfway through his third piece of toast before realising that he'd made coffee and cereal one handed without a second thought. 

Around midday he got a guarded phone call from Mycroft. A car was on its way. Would he be so kind as to come into London this afternoon? The matter was both urgent and important. John wanted nothing more to do with urgent important matters but Mycroft was politely insistent.

He was dropped in the carpark of what appeared to be HM Revenue and Customs offices in Kensington, then was led through the building to a small meeting room behind a glass door, and Mycroft, dapper as always.

"Kind of you to come. Do take a seat." There were three more armchairs around the small table. John sat down.

"What's this about, Mycroft?"

"I have an unscheduled visitor. Given the contents of your extremely informative report I considered that you ought to have the option of being present at this particular interview." The door opened behind John and he turned.

"Thank you for bringing him up, Keith. That will be all, thank you."

Behind the grey-suited civil servant was a familiar figure in jeans and a combat jacket. A long red line, bleeding in places and looking raw and painful, newly decorated his face. He met John's outrage without expression.

"What's he doing here?"

John could hear the blood pulsing in his ears. Sebastian, so close. 

"I don't yet know. Perhaps you could enlighten us both, Colonel?"

"Jim Moriarty knows that I've been spying for you." Moran was quiet, definite, talking to Mycroft alone.

"Knows, or suspects?"

"Knows." Seb put a hand up to his face, winced at the touch. "I think he's known for several days. He's been screwing with me, more than usual. Came out with it this morning."

"So you ran." John tried for a sneer.

"Not quite." Mycroft. "He let you go. Why?"

Seb shrugged. "He told me to deal with the matter, and be back for supper. Christ knows what he meant by deal with it, but this was our emergency contact so I came here."

"Deal with it? That a threat?" John was halfway out of his chair. Seb wasn't going to lay a finger on him again.

"Don't be stupid. I'm a long range sniper. I don't walk into your office and announce that I'm going to kill you."

"You used a knife at close range last time."

"I wasn't trying to kill you."

"I nearly died! Either you're fucking incompetent or you didn't care. Which is it, Seb? Why did you do it?" John hadn't realised how much he'd been waiting for this confrontation.

"Because I've done it before. More often than I care to remember. I know how it goes and I know what's left when we've finished and I made it as quick as I thought the boss would accept. Anything less than brutal and he'd never have let the two of you go, or me either."

He licked his lips, a rare sign of nervousness. "And you moved. I was never aiming to kill. The boss said to keep you alive but the way you bled; I really thought you'd die under my hands while he was still playing with Holmes."

"So you only intended to cripple me, is that it?"

Moran's eyes dropped to the sling. "Left arm was the best of some poor choices. Boss would be satisfied. I knew you'd adapt, better than blindness or a wheelchair."

John swallowed, sickened. Seb had planned for this.

The phone in front of Mycroft vibrated. "Excuse me." He picked it up. "Yes?"

Silence. John couldn't keep his eyes off Moran, who had seated himself across the table and was watching Mycroft, his back stiff.

"Send him up." Mycroft's tone was clipped. He closed the phone, sighed. "Sherlock is here, regrettably. I suggest that we postpone further discussion until he reaches us."

It was no more than a couple of minutes before Sherlock came through the door. He looked round, briefly, eyes settling on John. "Are you all right?"

"Apart from the company, yes."

Sherlock looked back at Mycroft. "Your spy's been unmasked."

"Apparently so."

"Good. Are you going to send him back to Moriarty in pieces, or wait for him to do it? I favour the latter." He was glaring at Moran now, "Jim's likely to be so much more inventive than you about inflicting a slow and agonising death."

"Sherlock!" His older brother was chiding. ""Crown agents in danger are entitled to the protection of the government."

"Don't be absolutely ridiculous, Mycroft. This man's not entitled to anything, not after what he did to John."

"He may not have had a choice."

"He had choices." Sherlock's voice was ice-cold. "He could have killed Moriarty, or walked away and taken up your offer of protection, and John would still have two usable arms." His tone was utterly unforgiving. "Now I put his life expectancy as the time Jim takes to kill him slowly, and no-one here will lift a finger to interfere."

"I am going to offer my assistance, Sherlock." Mycroft was sharp. 

"No you're not. I told you not to let Moriarty have his weapon back. If you had listened to me for once this never would have happened. I won't let you help him survive."

John had never heard Sherlock in this coldly murderous mood before. It clashed uncomfortably with his own hot anger. Sherlock was taking over, again. Sherlock would fuck things up, again.

"Get out." He pushed between Sherlock and Moran. "And take your brother with you. I need to talk to Moran alone. I've had enough of both your interference."

Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged quick glances. "You're not in any condition to deal with trouble, John." Sherlock was blunt. "He could be here to finish what he started."

"I don't need protection, Sherlock, and God knows I wouldn't trust to yours any more if I did. I'm not scared of Moran."

It was true. Moriarty terrified him, but Seb he was just furious with. He wasn't going to let either Holmes take this battle from him. "You can bicker with each other all you like, but I'm the one he stabbed, so get out and leave us alone."

"What do you intend to do?" Mycroft asked.

"I don't know. I need to talk to him. Alone."

Mycroft turned to Moran, who was still sitting expressionless through this. "I will be watching from across the corridor."

Moran nodded.

"Go." John scowled at Sherlock. "Watch us through the glass if you must. I don't care. Just get out of my space and let me deal with this without you screwing up again and costing me even more."

Sherlock actually flinched at that, before drawing himself up, haughty. "When you've decided that you're out of your depth, call me." He gave Moran one last poisonous glance and stalked out, followed by Mycroft.

"You two not such good friends at the moment, then?" Seb drawled as soon as the glass door closed.

There was a tray with equipment for drinks on the side table. John made for that without answering. He needed a coffee first. Seb leaned back in his chair, watching his slow progress.

"That arm's a bitch."

"Going to apologise?" If he tried anything of the kind John would find a way to kill him.

Seb shrugged. "What would be the point? You know what happened, you know why."

"So what do you want from me? Understanding? Forgiveness? Help with Moriarty? Another quick shag?" He took the single mug of coffee back to his chair. "Go on. Ask. I could do with a good laugh. Not many of those recently."

"Just wanted to see how you are.

"Someone I trusted forced me into restraints and then stuck a knife in me. I'm crippled for the rest of my life. How did you expect me to be?"

"A bit less petulant, to be honest. What's up with you and Holmes?" Seb sprawled back, apparently at ease. 

John was startled by the question. "What do you think? His stupidity got me stabbed."

"Thought that was my fault?"

"You, him, Mycroft. None of your bloody so-called protection was worth a fuck, was it? Moriarty did what he wanted anyway."

Those bright blue eyes watched him. "It took all three of us to keep you alive."

"You shouldn't have bothered." John glanced down at his motionless arm. "None of you did me a favour there. Wasn't about me, anyway. You all got what you wanted. Mycroft his spy, you your job and insane boyfriend back, Sherlock got his little kinky sex session. Think it's coincidence that I was the only one who lost out?" 

Moran's eyes narrowed. "You need to talk to Holmes- Sherlock- instead of sulking at him. Kick yourself out of this funk. You got hurt, soldier. War's like that. You're not the only one who went down."

John pushed himself upright, furious. "War's like that? You did it, Sebastian! Not a fucking bullet or roadside bomb! He gave the order and you couldn't bloody wait to carry it out! And Sherlock did nothing! Nothing!" Tears pricked for the first time. "I thought you both knew what you were doing. I trusted you both and you both sold me out to Jim Moriarty for sex!"

He was up again, around the table, fist balled. Seb came out of the seat to meet him, hands up defensively. "I'd love to play but scuffling's not good for that shoulder, John. Sit down and cut out the hysterics."

John stayed standing, breathing heavily.

"Look, John. You're a fucking idiot sometimes. You make these grand gestures; you hit the boss, you declare I'm under your protection, you walk straight into Moriarty's hands, and you haven't a clue how to handle any of the resulting trouble. Your Sherlock's a cold bastard but he's paid a hell of a lot for your grandstanding. And I've told you all along where my allegiances lie; you just didn't want to believe it. No-one's sold you out; you've been stupid and unlucky and got yourself on the wrong side of a very dangerous man, and you'd be dead if your boyfriend hadn't bought him off only way he could."

"You stabbed me!"

"Yeah. I was playing for the other side, just like everyone told you from the start. Go on, hate me for it. Chances are I'll be dead before sunrise anyway. Just stop feeling so bloody sorry for yourself. You get the wrong side of the wrong guys, shit happens. Ask Sherlock."

"Nothing ever happens to Sherlock. You said yourself, he lands on his feet."

"I was wrong."

Seb's insistence was slowly getting through. "What happened to him?"

"Ask him yourself."

John let out a long breath. "You really think Moriarty will kill you?"

"Can't figure out why he wouldn't this time. I thought Mycroft might have an answer but it looks like his brother's not going to let that happen."

"You don't look too bothered."

Seb laughed at that.

"So go back and kill him first. Or run."

Seb sighed. "Ought to be that easy, oughtn't it?" He sighed, and for a moment he was only John's old friend in trouble.

"God, Seb, why? Why the hell didn't you get out of there when you found out what he was like? It can't have been just the money, surely?"

Seb shook his head. "You can't understand what it's like to be with him, John. He looks at you, he sees everything, you never know what he's going to say, going to do. All that bloody focus; it's addictive. He's not like anyone else."

"I know all about the bloody focus, thanks." John picked up his cup, found the coffee lukewarm, drank it anyway. "So why did you hook up with Mycroft?"

Seb frowned. "Needed something of my own. A secret. Thought it might keep him interested, if there was something he didn't know."

"Not your conscience, then."

"Saved a few lives."

"More than you've taken?"

"Probably not, no."

John shook his head helplessly. "Seb. God, Sebastian. What the fuck are we meant to do now? I can't get past what you did. You know that. But I don't want him to kill you."

"Doesn't matter. There's nothing you can do. It's not your fault, John, not this one." He stood up. "There are some things I need to tell Mycroft before I go back; nothing for your ears. Go home. Adapt. People paid a lot for your life, John; don't waste it."

John could think of nothing else to say. He spoke briefly to Mycroft, got into the car arranged for him and stared out of the window at the city around him, not seeing any of it, until they pulled up at a traffic light and all four car doors opened. Something was pulled over his head, and he struggled briefly, then nothing at all.

 

He awoke, groggy, on a tiled floor. His shoulder ached. The air was still and warm and he was naked.

Shit. Shit shit shit. He opened his eyes, blinked them against the bright artificial light, pushed himself upright with his good arm.

He was alone. There was a chain from a ring on his ankle to one set in the floor. Like Sherlock, chained up. The room didn't have windows. There was probably little use in it but he shouted anyway, for help, for Sherlock, for anyone. After an indeterminate time when nothing happened, he stopped.

He missed his painkillers. Whoever had stripped him had taken the dressing from his shoulder; the knife wound throbbed, red and ugly. Worse to come, no doubt. His good arm was curled around his knees, the other hung by his side, dead and hateful.

Eventually the door opened.

"Johnny boy." Moriarty was grinning, dressed down in jeans and a t-shirt. "You hid. I found you!"

"We've done this once already." John said, tiredly. "You're repeating yourself, Moriarty."

"That's the point." Jim walked around him, considering his naked body in a way that made him shiver. "What's Sherlock going to do about this, do you think?"

John had no idea. He looked over to the door that Moriarty had come through, caught a glimpse of familiar decor beyond. Seb's office. "Where's Moran?"

Teeth glinted. No other response. 

"You used Seb to lure me out." Had Moran known? 

"I do hate losing touch with old friends."

John looked away from Moriarty, trying to choke down the nausea. He'd been foolish to think there was any safety anywhere.

"Nothing to say? Maybe when the others arrive." 

"Others?"

"I'm throwing a little party. Balloons, cake, party games, that sort of thing." He saw John glance around at the bare walls. "Not in your honour, obviously. You just decorated the invite. I imagine they'll be arriving any time now."

There was a noise from the office; a key in the door and a very quiet scrape of it open.

"In here!" Moriarty called.

John saw Sebastian's face blanch as their eyes met. A second later and Seb was his usual impassive self. He hadn't known; a tiny consolation.

"Boss?"

"We're expecting company. Get things ready, will you?"

"Sure." He didn't look at John again; instead he was bringing out objects from cupboards. Something electrical; dials and wires. 

"What's that for?" John was about as scared as he could be already. 

"Sherlock didn't tell you about last time? And I suppose what with your sulking you haven't had the chance to see the burnmarks. They're probably nearly gone now. Never mind, you'll be fully conscious this time round. He's rather pretty, thrashing around, and very very loud."

Oh God. Oh God oh God. Sherlock. Moriarty's phone rang.

"You're late." Jim listened, impatient. "Of course he isn't dead. Want me to make him scream?" A pause. "If it would make you happy." He passed the phone down to John. "Say hello."

"Is Moran there?" Sherlock's voice, urgent.

"Yes. For God's sake don't come, Sherlock."

"I'm sorry, John. I can't do this." Sherlock's voice was shaking. "Give him the phone back."

Jim snatched it from the proffered hand. "Hurry up." His expression changed to one of disbelief. "Of course you're coming!" He switched the phone to his left hand, drew a gun with the right. "One bullet into your pet. Just one."

The phone got hurled across the room. "He hung up!" The gun had been trained on John's head, dropped to his uninjured shoulder. "I've got you. He has to come! Both of them!"

John shrugged, suspended somewhere between relief and absolute terror. "You overplayed your hand. Sherlock won't play puppet twice." He wasn't coming. He'd left John at the mercy of Moriarty, and Moran. 

Moran. Sherlock had asked about Moran.

"If Sherlock won't rescue you you're no use to me." Moriarty hissed viciously. "I'm going to kill you slowly and painfully then dump your body in Baker Street. After that I'll find some other way to make Sherlock play." 

John looked into those furious brown eyes and had no doubt that he meant it. "Focus" he prayed at the man, silently. "Focus on me. Just me." His own eyes shifted from his enemy's to the gun barrel that was moving again, this time to his legs as he was curled up on the floor. 

Moriarty was grinning. "I'm going to take you to bits." He could see the slow movement of the trigger finger, waiting for the explosion and the pain. 

The noise was deafening in the tiled room, first the shot and then Moriarty's scream. Jim was cradling his hand to his chest, blood everywhere. John pushed himself up and at the man, swinging his fist with all the force he could manage. Moriarty went down backwards and John threw himself onto him, the chain round his ankle jerking him back so that he knelt on the man's legs. Moran smashed his gun into Moriarty's face, and again, then looked across at John.

"He's out."

"Ring Sherlock." John scrabbled for the phone in the unconscious man's pockets. 

"Mycroft," Seb corrected, grabbing it.

"Whatever." He took a breath. "Shit. Took your time, you bastard."

"My timing's perfect. Sniper, remember." Seb talked into the phone. "Moriarty's unconscious. Come and get him." Pause. "Yeah, he's fine. Cute as ever." He hung up. "Minute and a half, max. There are some guys out there to deal with. Guards won't come in here though."

"Get this thing off me and find me some clothes. I don't want Mycroft seeing me like this."

"Don't mind Sherlock though, do you? Pull it tight." Another bullet smashed into the links, ripping skin off John's ankle. "Your clothes will be around here somewhere."

"Anything."

He was wrapped in Moran's coat when Sherlock came through the door, gun in hand.

"John!" He heard the gun hit the floor as Sherlock's hands grabbed his shoulders. "John. I couldn't come. He knew I'd always come for you, so I couldn't." Fast and incoherent. "I had to leave you there with him. I'm sorry, John. It was the only logical thing to do. I'm so sorry."

"It's OK." John wrapped his arm around Sherlock, pulled him close, felt him shake. "It's OK. I'm OK. Seb was here. You knew...how did you know?"

"I didn't know for certain. But you said he was a decent man, once. You're not a bad judge of character"

"He's a dreadful judge of character." Seb's low voice from behind John. "But he does have the quality of making you want to live up to his expectations."

"It took you far too long." Sherlock sounded furious.

"Don't." John stepped back from Sherlock. "It doesn't matter. We're all alive, and Moriarty's...what? Going to be arrested?"

"Dead." Sherlock bent down for his gun. There were a handful of people around Moriarty's unconscious body.

"No." Seb's hand was on his own weapon.

"Stop it, both of you." Much as John wanted Moriarty gone forever, he couldn't face the potential consequences of this argument. "Leave him to Mycroft. I want to go home."

 

Shopping trolleys were more steerable than they used to be. John had become skilled at maneuvuring with one knee as he pulled items off the shelves. Unload straight into the cab, persuade Sherlock downstairs to help him carry the week's shopping up to the kitchen. All manageable. He was thinking about making tonight's dinner, the hospital appointment tomorrow, nothing significant, when a voice came low in his ear.

"John."

He hadn't seen Seb since Moriarty was taken, over a month previously. He'd known that Mycroft had him under his wing, that the zoo murder enquiry had been wrapped up somehow without involving either Moriarty or Moran. 

"What are you doing here?"

"Shoppping for two?" Seb nodded at the basket.

"Yeah." Nothing to be embarrassed about, so why was he blushing?

"Huh."

"How are things with Mycroft?" 

Seb smiled. "Came to say goodbye."

"Where are you going?"

"Abroad. Rest is operational information." 

"Oh. Good." The thought of Seb working fulltime for Mycroft was satisfying, somehow. "Hope he works you hard."

"It'll be dangerous." Satisfaction in his tone.

"Rather you than me, then." John reckoned his addiction to danger had been comprehensively cured. Sherlock thought otherwise, but Sherlock had been wrong before. "Look after yourself, Seb."

Moran shrugged. "Bye." And he was off, fast stride between the afternoon shoppers. 

John didn't mention the meeting to Sherlock when he got home. He saw Sherlock look up, curious, when he started whistling over the pans, but he said nothing.

The doorbell rang just as they were finishing eating. John opened the door to Mycroft. "Evening."

"Are you both all right?" Mycroft was more intense than usual.

"Yes, why shouldn't we be?" He followed the guest up the stairs. Sherlock had put down his plate, was standing waiting. Eyes widened as he saw Mycroft's face.

"You've let him escape!"

"He had help. Moran's gone."

"Christ!" John sank into his seat. "What will he do?"

"His UK operations are completely dismantled. We completed that two days ago."

"We being you and Moran." Sherlock was scathing.

"And others. But Moran's information has been 100% accurate. Moriarty has nothing left."

"Except Seb." John shook his head. "He said he was going abroad. They're not coming after us."

"Not yet. It will take a while to rebuild his empire. But he will."

"At least he can't go unnoticed any more." Jim had lost most of his right hand to Seb's bullet. John couldn't imagine how the two men could be working together again. Oh, Seb. Stupid, crazy idiot. And now just where he wanted to be. John understood how that felt.

"Are you all right, John?" Sherlock was solicitous, occasionally, these days. Among other changes. John managed a smile back. 

"Yes."

"He won't touch you again. I promise." 

"It's all right, Sherlock. I've got you all looking out for me." 

Sherlock, Mycroft, Moran. He didn't trust any of them to do the right thing, the decent thing, the sensible thing, ever, but when it came to keeping him alive he'd back the three of them against Jim Moriarty's worst intentions. 

"I'm not going to lose any more sleep over Moriary, Sherlock. I've got a life to lead." Shopping and cooking and watching TV and chasing bad guys and trying to get Sherlock to behave. Most of it didn't take two hands, and when it did he had Sherlock's on generally willing loan. He'd survived the worst of Jim's malevolence, with help. It wasn't always fine, but he was adapting. 

"Anyone for dessert? Sherlock peeled the apples." He laughed at the look of astonishment on Mycroft's face. "Guaranteed edible- I supervised closely."

"I really ought to get back to the search operation." Mycroft didn't move.

"I'm sure they'll tell you if they find them. Tea with it?"

"Very well then. Yes, thank you."

John scooped up his and Sherlock's empty plates with practised ease, left Sherlock remonstrating with his brother about letting Moran near Moriarty's prison. He'd half expected Moriarty to escape, somehow. It didn't matter right now. What mattered was here, now, in Baker Street, setting out bowls of apple crumble and cream, a fresh pot of tea, with Sherlock's deep sarcastic rumble coming from the living room. Briefly he thought of Sebastian, on the run with his insane lover, wished him his own occasional moment of contentment, whatever form that might take. Then he interrupted Sherlock to ask him to bring through the laden tray.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who read and commented. I'm now happy to comment back!


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